


Fever Dream

by wickedwanton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:29:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwanton/pseuds/wickedwanton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you trust the illusionist or the illusion?  At least one tragedy has occurred.  Sherlock thinks he's losing his mind.  Molly thought she was finally free.  He won't bury an empty casket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes was furious. He hadn’t believed for a moment that anyone would have died of something as interesting as anthrax, but he had wanted to see the body, see what had panicked an intern. By the time Molly returned and could get him inside the morgue, not only would the body have been removed, but all the samples and test results would be passed along as well. She texted that she’d try to get Mike Stamford to save him something, but without her there to bat her eyelashes, it wouldn’t work. It was amazing what she could get Mike Stamford to do. Serious sulking was now required.

He checked his watch. Four hours until they were supposed to meet at the morgue.

What had possessed her to fly to Paris for only a weekend? (He was glad it was only a weekend, especially in view of the not-anthrax!) John had said something about “university friends”, but that couldn’t be right. If she were still close with any of those people, why were there no photographs of them in her flat or office? She should have been gushing about their weddings and thrusting new baby pictures at the woman who ran the cafeteria. Who did reunions in another country, anyway? Maybe he’d check the surface tension of his latest experiment in the refrigerator. Make sure it gleamed properly the next time John opened the door.

Three hours and fifty minutes.

He wasn’t hopeful about the morgue anyway. With an anthrax scare, the “proper” authorities had undoubtedly cleaned out every possible closet, drawer, slab, trench, cupboard, and shelf. They would have started destroying whatever they found as quickly as they could to prevent contamination. He was resigned that his cultures would be lost to an abundance of caution. Maybe he’d ask Molly for the idiot intern’s name. Make a reasoned argument why pathology was obviously not their field. He picked up the newspaper he’d already read twice to stop himself from piling the dirty dishes in the sink.

Three hours and forty minutes.

He would have to have a word with her about the whole matter. She had responsibilities and couldn’t just take off for a weekend in Paris, leaving St. Bart’s in the hands of such ludicrous incompetence. At least this had just been a scare; if it had been an emergency…

John came into the room at a run, skidded to a stop and grabbed the television remote, mumbling all the while. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sank lower behind the paper. Arsenal must have lost again. He wondered how much John had bet this time.

“Okay, Mike. As soon as you hear anything more, let us know, yeah?” 

The television wasn’t on Sky Sports and something was horribly wrong with John’s voice. BBC was just beginning the graphics for breaking news. If it was a case they should have heard from Lestrade first. Footage of a plume of smoke over the English Channel. John couldn’t seem to get his fingers to properly work his mobile phone.

Molly’s plane, a BA flight, had landed safely forty eight minutes late last night. Sherlock had checked the website himself, starting at ten, then at regular intervals until it arrived at the terminal. Terrible word for an airport. He had even added an hour to his ETA at the morgue in case she slept late.

A small commuter plane, maybe thirty to fifty passengers. It had been in contact with air traffic control, complaining of smoke in the cabin. The usual assurances that there was no word of terrorist involvement.

“John…” 

“Greg?” John’s voice was getting tighter. “Did Mike get a hold of you yet?” A pause while he scrubbed at his forehead. “That’s the flight number she texted me. Any chance she mixed up the numbers?”

“John!” Sherlock tried very hard to breathe. She flew in last night. He used his own mobile, calling her apartment. She should be awake by now. No answer. Maybe she was showering.

“If you can’t get anywhere with them, let us know. There may be another way we can check.” a pause. “I will. Keep in touch.” John dropped into his chair. He couldn’t remember for the life of him if he had told Sherlock of her changed plans. 

 

Thirty six hours earlier…

“There is no anthrax in the morgue, John. It was just an overexcited intern who overreacted, promise.” Molly squeezed the mobile phone tighter and covered her other ear. Even the bathroom in Le Baron Rouge was loud. Her hand was beginning to cramp. Emails had been flying to and from her smart phone for most of the day; St. Bart’s, Lestrade, Donovan, and of course, texts from Sherlock. Out of all of them, he seemed disappointed at the outcome. The man would let loose the zombie apocalypse if he got bored enough!

“I keep telling him, but he seems to think it’s all a conspiracy to keep him out of the lab until you get back! You will be back on time, right?” John sounded on the near edge of desperate. “You land at ten pm Sunday?”

She winced. “Sorry, change of plan. BA overbooked the flight, but they offered me a great discount to give up my seat. I’m booked onto a smaller carrier for Monday morning.”

“Be sure to text me the details. You alright, Molly? You sound a little down.” John had thought this sudden weekend trip was strange from the moment she had mentioned it. It sounded like something she should be happy, excited about, yet it almost seemed to sadden her.

“I think I may be coming down with something.” she admitted. “Too tired, no appetite. Surrounded by great food and I’m nauseous. Give me a couple days and I’ll be fine.” 

“It’s all those cream sauces. Get back here for a bacon…”

“Physician, heal thyself!” she laughed. “Go nursemaid Sherlock; he needs it more than me! I’ll see the two of you Monday afternoon!”

“Cheers, Molly.” John rang off.

 

She sent the text with her flight information to John, pocketed her phone and then made her way out to the table they had laid claim to upon arrival. She supposed it was wonderful for so many of them to be together again, but the ache hung heavy in the air. An empty chair that would always sit among them. 

Molly reclaimed her wine glass from Alice, wondering if it was like this for John when he and his fellow soldiers got together. Camaraderie of a shared experience, yet the shadow of a tragedy that clung like spider webs and couldn’t be brushed away. Wasn’t time supposed to heal all wounds? 

“All’s well back in London?” Max asked from across the table. “Your phone seems to be chiming the hour!”

“Just a little office madness. Nothing that won’t wait.” She managed to not add ‘unfortunately”. She wanted to make her excuses, bolt out of the bar, run for home and never look back. Still, if it kept them from turning up on her doorstep, one meeting every five years could be stomached.

Max smirked. “Speaking of waiting, are we finally going to order? If I have any more of this ale, Peter is going to start looking good!”

“Not until you buy me a ring, jackass.” Peter deadpanned, never looking up from the menu card.

“Nothing for me, thanks.” Molly stood. “I’ll just go get a refill.”

Much to her consternation, Alice followed her to the bar. “It was him on the phone, wasn’t it? Bright Eyes?”

“Don’t start!” She should never have shown any of them John’s website. True, it made explaining some of odder parts of her work life easier, but if Sherlock ever heard the nickname Alice had hung on him, well, ‘hell to pay’ wouldn’t begin to cover it. “And, no. It was John Watson.”

“You lucked out, Molly. You should see what I have to face at work. I’d trade you lab rats for corpses if I had two bits of eye candy like that as a bonus feature!” Alice smiled. “I still can’t believe you keep your hands to yourself!” 

“St. Bart’s has a no harassment policy.” She counted out coins to pay for the white wine, smiling inwardly. Lusting after a few photos was one thing; Alice might never recover from the full Holmes-Watson package. Sherlock would reduce her to a smoking grease spot on the floor as soon as she opened her mouth, and John seemed able to recognize Alice’s type fairly quickly. Sometimes not until the second date, but quickly enough. 

“But, seriously, hon.” Alice wrapped herself around Molly’s arm like a snake. “Life goes on! You haven’t really had a man in your life since…”

Molly stilled, trying not to make a scene. “Come on, Alice. You’ve had enough husbands for our entire graduating class!” She tried to smile evilly, but it died on the way to her eyes. She never had been any good at that particularly bitchy form of combat.

“David loved you.”

Molly couldn’t breathe. She wanted to scream, lash out, and run from the agony that flared up her spine. It was none of the damned woman’s business. She knew she shouldn’t have come here. It was too much like probing an old wound for someone else’s edification. Weak kneed, she went back to the table and dropped into a chair.

“Max, tell her!” Alice seemed to be trying to call the whole table together. Several of them visibly flinched. All went silent.

Peter snagged the glass from Alice’s hand. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight, honey. Let’s get you back to the hotel.” The woman protested, but he maneuvered them both quickly out the door.

Conversations had restarted when Max came to sit beside Molly. “She was only trying to help.”

“I can’t do this anymore, Max.” she studied the bottom of her wine glass. “I know you all think that somehow seeing you helps, but it doesn’t. I’m not…that person anymore.”

“None of us are those people anymore.” he smiled, taking her hand, absently drawing circles on her wrist. “We think getting the old gang together will be like going back to just how things were when we thought we had all the answers.”

“We didn’t even know the questions.” Molly squeezed his fingers. “Think you could lose my number before the next reunion?”

Max nodded, standing and raising his glass. “To absent friends.”

Molly echoed the toast. Maybe she was finally free.

 

John Watson was at a loss for what to do. He knew Kubler-Ross’ five stages of grieving, hell, had gotten training on how to help the soldiers under his care come to terms with the death of comrades. Just this once, couldn’t Sherlock come close to a shade of normal? Done something that would allow him to help?

Three days since the plane had dived, broken up and erupted into flame in the Channel. Sherlock hadn’t eaten; hadn’t slept. John would have expected that. What chilled him was that Sherlock hadn’t spoken. Not even when Mrs. Hudson had clung weeping into his shirt. Sherlock had been texting occasionally, or at least had been until John had stopped him from launching his phone out the window to the street below. He saw a reply from Mycroft “There are always other pathologists.” He wasn’t answering Lestrade’s calls or texts. 

Sherlock was drinking phenomenal amounts of coffee, pacing in long bursts, but spent most of his time curled in his chair in positions that made John’s joints ache. John knew he had left the flat once in the dead of night, because Molly’s diary suddenly appeared on the living room table. Sherlock must not have read it yet; the lock was still in place and if he had opened it, it would have been pointless to relock it. 

Not even his violin had spoken. John watched him lift it, try to play several times. The end of the bow trembled, dipped, and Sherlock gave up. The last time it had looked like he was going to fling it out the window as well, but at the last second he stopped and placed it back in its case. John had been very glad that he had removed his service revolver from the flat, locking it temporarily in a safety deposit box. The walls wouldn’t have survived, he tried to tell himself.

Last night had been the worst so far. He had reminded Sherlock of the memorial service they were expected to attend Friday afternoon. He had already set up the traditional floral arrangement to be delivered to the chapel, and explained to people that he didn’t think Sherlock would be saying a few words over the empty casket. John had been asleep several hours when the noises woke him.

He crept nearer the living room as the sounds repeated. The lamps were off but the flames in the grate gave enough light that he could see Sherlock’s face. He had thought Sherlock was sobbing, maybe finally accepting what had happened. Not a tear to be seen. It chilled John to the core. He wasn’t crying; he was screaming. Inarticulate fury almost escaping, gurgled back, silenced.

 

Sherlock was still perched in the chair when John went to make his morning tea. Tomorrow was the service and he was determined that they both attend. It was the respectful thing to do.

“We have to talk about tomorrow.” John set the plate of toast close enough that the other man could steal off a piece even though he was sure that wouldn’t happen. “The limousine will pick us and Mrs. Hudson up at one o’clock. Greg was asking if you’d serve as a pall bearer. He’s…”

“No.”

“I’m doing it. Molly’s only family is an old infirmed aunt that probably can’t even attend.” John considered telling him Anderson had volunteered. “It would be the proper thing, Sherlock. Respectful of the dead.”

“No.”

“Are you not even going?” Social tone-deafness be damned! “You owe her this, Sherlock! It’s what Molly would have…” John knew the moment the words had left him that they shouldn’t have been said. It was like standing in front of a blast furnace. 

“She’s not dead, John.” it came out as a snarl, hanging in the air.

The pause went on too long. He dropped his toast back on the plate, wiped crumbs off on his pants. “What, you think somebody, Moriarty maybe, kidnapped her? We would have heard something by now.” John shuffled forward in his chair. 

Sherlock didn’t blink.

“She was on the passenger manifest.” John was fighting to keep his voice even. “She got on the plane at Roissy de Gaulle Airport, we can prove it.”

“I’d know. I’d f…” his eyes and mouth snapped shut simultaneously. His lower lip disappeared and a twitch began in his cheek. “I’m losing my mind.” a monotone as he swept out to his room, the door slamming behind him.

“Not now.” John whispered a prayer to the empty room. Don’t let him figure it out now.


	2. Chapter 2

There had always been too much space in his bed. When he stretched out there was nothing to push against, to stress. His lungs were working like bellows, pushing out against his ribs, his fingers driving deeper into his palms. His eyes couldn’t close tightly enough.

He couldn’t have been any older than ten when Mycroft had taken him to see an illusionist, famous at the time, but largely forgotten now. It hadn’t been for entertainment; it was a test. They sat apart from the rest of the audience, Mycroft insisting he explain the mechanics of each illusion as it was performed. Each had been slightly harder than the last, impressing all but two of the crowd. The man was reasonably proficient and Sherlock found himself enjoying his ability to misdirect, mislead. 

For his final illusion, the man had brought onstage the traditionally beautiful assistant, placing her in a clear Plexiglas box. A silk sheet covered the box briefly and when it was pulled away, a tiger paced the box alone. 

Somehow, Sherlock had missed it. His eyes darted around the stage and he could hear his brother’s derisive laugh. For months afterward, Mycroft insisted that if it couldn’t be explained, then the woman had obviously transmogrified into a real tiger. He knew it couldn’t possibly be true, yet no explanation came. He was back staring at that tiger again.

Molly Hooper was not dead. No matter what reason or sense he tried to apply to the impulse, it wouldn’t relent. Every time he tried, used all of the skills and judgment he possessed, the truth danced farther out of his reach. Stupid accidents happened all the time, robbing the world of the best and brightest among them. The innocents, those least deserving frequently met the most horrible fates. He should be able to grasp this simple principle, if not calmly, at least with certainty, yet every time, it turned in his hands, cutting deeper. If she had died, he would have felt it. Why the hell would he have felt it?

Always something he missed. He tried his best weapon, trying to find a hint, something overlooked, forgotten. So many of those areas covered with blaring signs “this way madness lay”. He couldn’t bear to look, had broken into her empty apartment, stealing her diary so no one else could, either. All of the warnings, all the red flags. He never had been any good at heeding limits. When he wasn’t looking, some part of him must have crossed that line, the briefest of moments, and now the bill was coming due.

Sleep was coming now and no stimulant could hold it back any more. He couldn’t afford his usual lucid dreaming, sitting up in his chair or on the couch, drifting in and out of that bottomless ocean. A slight draft now becoming her whispers, his hair moving as she breathed on his forehead. Without thought, he reached for the stolen fabric hidden beneath his pillow. Maybe if he let sleep claim him entirely, he could drop past dreams. The fabric still smelled of her shampoo and that ridiculously named hand cream she applied and reapplied all day.

In moments, he was in the morgue at St. Bartholomew’s and it had never been so empty. No bodies on gurneys waiting to be checked in, no corpses on slabs in storage. No organs stored for the students (or him). Most of the equipment was also absent. No Molly.

The tremors seemed to have followed him into the dream. He knew Molly didn’t live at the morgue, but he couldn’t help thinking of it as shutting down, stopping if she were gone. His fists clenched. He had to come to terms with this, find some way of processing the truth. He had never really understood why people needed to see the empty shells left behind when someone they cared for died. Transport. A vacant suit of once-living tissue, nothing more. Would seeing her body help? It wasn’t an option. If the explosion had left anything behind the water would have washed it away. Perhaps at some point there might be a bone fragment that could be tested. Until then, she would get a headstone with nothing beneath it. He’d never know where the rest of her was. She’d earned better than that.

He made his way back toward her office, only to discover a single body bag waiting on one of the autopsy tables. It froze him in his tracks. Had he needed to see her enough to have conjured her body here? He walked closer to it, gripped with something he tried to deny was dread. It wasn’t real; he was only dreaming. He reached out for the zipper, bracing for what he would find.

“Not yet.” a small voice whispered. A cold wet hand had stopped his wrist. Molly had let go of him as he staggered back.

She was dressed in that ridiculous red Christmas sweater she had worn the night Irene Adler’s first corpse had been brought in. Her hair was down and she was soaking wet, dripping water on the linoleum wherever she went. No visible signs of injury, but her eyes were horrible; no longer suede brown, they had turned the shade of the murky Channel waters. 

“I don’t believe in ghosts.” he hissed.

“You don’t believe I am a ghost.” she smiled weakly. “I guess I don’t need to be. I haunt you anyway.”

The water in the morgue was rising, pulling at him. “What do you want from me?”

She was so close now, the cold wrapping around him. “An answer, Sherlock. Give me an answer.” Her lips touched him, just brushing, the icy burn of liquid nitrogen. She went limp in his arms, eyes vacant, and lips blue. The rising water drifting her hair out like a halo, pulling her away as he jolted awake.

He dressed quickly, and then dumped the contents of his sock drawer on the bed. Passport retrieved, he grabbed his wallet off the kitchen table, and slammed the flat door behind him. Lestrade could send him her credit card records. It would be just over a one hour flight.

 

Five days earlier…

Molly hadn’t been able to keep her room at the Millennium Hotel for the additional night, but they provided her and her bags a ride to a smaller airport based lodge. It was all right, a bit more industrial than she would have normally chosen, but it was at least clean and well managed. They had transportation available to almost anywhere she could have wished to see before her flight in the morning.

As she checked in, they sent all but her carry-on bag ahead to the airport. Newly coded key card in hand, she made her way up to her room. It was sparse, small but not claustrophobic, and covered in the patterns she knew were used commercially to cover for wear and tear and stains. 

All she really had eyes for at the moment was the bed. The queasiness had eased overnight, but she was so tired! Knowing she would have to land at Heathrow, drop her things at her flat, get cleaned up and then immediately get to Bart’s, napping sounded glorious. She toed off her trainers, took off the jeans she bought when she and some of the other woman stopped at an American boutique, and slid into the cold bed. The sheets were crisp, mirroring her warmth quickly and she drifted off in moments.

She ended up sleeping most of the day. When she woke up to the setting sun, she had a real debate. Just going back to sleep sounded wonderful, but she really should eat. She had barely eaten anything on the trip so far and wasn’t up to mimicking Sherlock. Brushing and braiding her hair out of the way, she reviewed her limited options.

Most of the others would have flown out earlier in the day, but she could call Max and Ian. They had lived here for years and she was sure they could help her find a good cheeseburger. No, on second thought, she wouldn’t call them. Socializing on a Sunday night was always difficult when people had to go to work in the morning. Besides, she’d end up talking with them into the wee hours and that bed still had her name on it.

Le Baron Rouge was in a great neighborhood. The web had claimed it was the Parisian version of the bar in the American television show “Cheers”. She wasn’t sure she agreed, but it had been a nice place. She pulled her pants and shoes back on. 

Her wallet in one pocket and her mobile phone in the other, she jammed her overnight bag under the bed. Nothing in it worth robbing anyway. She would ask the woman at the check in desk to call her a cab.

 

The food was good, and Molly hadn’t been alone long. A group of Americans had come in, but none of the party had spoken French. As soon as they had heard her, they seemed to add her to their number. It was fun, if jarringly familiar. 

Over beer and food, they had joked about the cultural distortions an ocean could cause. Her profession usually put people off, but apparent plethora of forensic television shows on in America seemed to allow it to pass. She did get the odd “can you really test for…” and “could you get away with…“ questions, but she had stock answers (yes and no, respectively. Didn’t want to give away all the secrets!). 

She was saying her goodbyes when she started feeling a bit short of breath. Not a real concern, but she wanted to get back to the tiny bed in the tiny hotel. As she signed the receipt, the bartender offered to call her a cab. She didn’t understand most of what he said, but was suspicious she didn’t look well. 

The air was a bit cooler outside, but she was feeling clammy. Drugged? No, she never had her eyes off her food or drink long enough for someone to slip her anything. She tried feeling for her pulse in her neck. The symptoms all seemed to indicate her blood pressure dropping, but that didn’t make sense. 

The heat came first, the sensation of a blanket fresh from the dryer being wrapped around her head to toe. Leaning against the building, she moved her fingers, knowing her pulse had to be there somewhere. Now it was ice water hitting her skin by the bucket. Sweating seemed to make it even colder. 

Her eyes darted about wildly, trying to see if anyone in particular was watching her, noting her distress. Nothing. When the cab arrived, she’d go to the hospital first. Something very wrong was happening.

The heat came again and her stomach twisted like she’d been punched. A dead voice, unheard for more than a decade whispered from deep inside her mind. “I’ve been dreaming of mirrors again.”

No. Don’t let the memories come now. Too much to deal with. The ice water was back and her legs were turning to jelly. Get back inside, get help. The door seemed to have retreated down a long corridor. She fumbled for her phone, dropping her wallet. Was it 999 here, too? She couldn’t remember.

The voice in her mind as the pavement rushed up. “An army of mirrors reflecting people to death.” She never felt the concrete grab her.

 

John was trying to rush back to the flat before Sherlock woke up. He hadn’t wanted to leave him alone, but they had run out of both milk and sugar, both their own and Mrs. Hudson’s. She offered to keep an ear out while John shopped. When chaos swirled, there was a great benefit in holding to a few simple unchanging things. Tea was definitely one of those things.

“Funeral March of a Marionette” began blaring from his jacket pocket. Mycroft had been calling since the crash, ordering John to check every possible hiding space, which he was willing to do, and to report everything his younger brother did, which John would not. Some things were just not Mycroft’s business. 

John fumbled the phone open. “What now?”

“Why is my brother at Heathrow?” Mycroft was not amused. “And why did you feel a desperate need to go to a Tesco instead?”

“What?” couldn’t one of the brothers just go from ‘a’ to ‘b’, instead of ‘a’ to ‘a suffusion of yellow’? “Sherlock’s at the airport?”

“Yes, John. I’m beginning to wonder if you understand the term ‘watch him’. It usually involves actually having visual contact.”

John had come around the corner and could now see Mrs. Hudson outside the door of 221, wringing her hands and looking for him. “Do you know where he’s trying to go?”

“His flight to Paris is due to take off in ten minutes. You have to go after him, John. Is your passport up to date?” 

He handed Mrs. Hudson the bags, clasping her arm momentarily and trying to assure her he had things under control. “Yes. If there’s a problem, can’t you just hold the plane on the tarmac? Arrest him if all else fails?” He started up the stairs by twos.

There was a long pause. “No one is to know this, John. Do you understand?”

He dug into the satchel of papers he kept by the door. His passport was valid for another two years. He slid it into his inner pocket. “Of course.”

“We have reason to believe the passenger manifest from Dr. Hooper’s flight is fraudulent. It appears someone replicated the baggage manifest instead.”

John froze, rooting in the closet for his overnight bag. “Mycroft, was Molly on that flight or not?”

“We have to assume that she was. The airline is reluctant to let us see the security camera footage that could confirm or deny any of the passengers from that flight. It may take several more hours until enough pressure has been applied for the airline to acquiesce.”

He rested his head on the door frame. “You want Sherlock at that end when you find out, don’t you?” He shook himself. “I can be ready in ten minutes.”

“A plane will be awaiting your arrival. We’ve booked you into Dr. Hooper’s last known hotel. A sum has been transferred into your checking account that should cover any expenses. Find Sherlock, John. This may get very…messy.”


	3. Chapter 3

He hated airports. No amount of high-end architecture or commissioned art could cover the sense of a stockyard that an airport conveyed. Business people with their heads buried in reports, conference calls or their own self-importance chronically getting under foot. Friends and families either overjoyed or crushed as arrivals and departures were announced. Lovers being separated or reunited and desperately needing private rooms. All the incoming signals would normally be nearly overwhelming to him, but today had him on the razor edge of a meltdown. 

It hadn’t helped that his lack of luggage seemed to set off every single security red flag. They kept asking him what the purpose of his visit was. He couldn’t find words for the truth, so he stayed with simple tourism. He was verging on relenting, phoning his brother to clear a few blockades, when they finally gave in, granting him entrance to the country. He reclaimed his passport and made his way out past the terminals. 

He downloaded the .PDF file of Molly’s recent credit card activity Lestrade emailed him. The Millennium Hotel would be practically useless after this long. He might go there to look for information on some of the other “reunion” members, but Molly had clearly checked out Sunday morning. The room would have been cleaned out, sterilized several times by now. The IBIS Budget Roissy looked more promising. They had charged her for both the one night she was supposed to need, and a charge for the day of the crash. That left only two nights they could have leased the room. The only explanation he could think of for the billing was that she hadn’t actually checked out. 

He hailed a cab. Fortunately, IBIS was very close by.

 

The lobby was full and the hotel was obviously busy, which lowered Sherlock’s expectations. He was suddenly glad he had asked the cab to wait. He took a moment to compose himself, choosing which clerk to approach. 

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you,” he began; face significantly softer than when he had come in. “My wife was staying here this last weekend and she’s afraid she may have left a few things in her room. Would it be all right for me to go up and check?”

The youngest clerk at the desk smiled shyly. “Could I have your surname, monsieur?” 

“She was registered as Hooper, Molly Hooper.” he leaned into the desk, trying to give off an aura of friendliness.

The girl checked the computer. “I’m sorry, sir, but that room is now occupied.” She bit her lip. “Un moment, s’il vous plait.” Holding up a finger, she walked into the back office.

She returned in a few moments with a fabric bag roughly twice the size of a briefcase. He didn’t need to open it; he recognized her handwriting on the tag. “Is this hers, monsieur?” She smiled.

“Merci. Merci, beau.” he and the bag had to get out before an older manager asked for identification from “Mr. Hooper”.

 

Sherlock explained to the cabbie that he needed to go to Le Baron Rouge. It was the last place the credit card record showed Molly had been. Dinner, two beers, and a healthy tip for the waiting staff. Maybe healthy enough that someone would remember her.

He wanted to examine the bag en route. He would have preferred full privacy, but there was no time for finding a hotel room, especially without reservations. The cab at least had the privacy of anonymity. 

The zipper was stiff, although she must have tried to loosen it with bar soap. The bag held an additional set of clothing, undoubtedly what she had intended to wear on the return flight. Knit pants and a sweatshirt at least three sizes too large for her. A small pain in his chest when he saw her mp3 player. Two unread paperback books; a murder mystery and a so-called romance novel. For a moment, he couldn’t decide which had the more lurid cover. Basic toiletries, all in sample sizes, most likely purchased for the trip. Hair brush, new, no DNA. A small photo album that he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to open, so he slid it into his coat pocket. Mascara, lip gloss and a small perfume in a zippered bag together. He recognized the scent and it gave him a jolt. That alone would have convinced him it was Molly’s bag. 

He was putting the items back in, preparing to close the bag, when a zipper caught his eye. It was set neatly along a seam inside the bag, meant to go unnoticed by anyone but the owner. Definitely something inside.

Sherlock’s fingers buzzed, seeming to know what the small booklet was even before he could see it. A sound escaped him, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. He leaned into his hand for a moment covering his eyes as if from the sun. There was no possible way Molly was on that plane. He had all the proof he needed in the palm of his hand. He sniffed, wiping the wet from his wrist on his coat as he pulled out his mobile phone. Working quickly, he photographed Molly’s passport and sent the image to John, Lestrade and Mycroft, not bothering to read their messages to him. There was a bigger problem.

If she wasn’t on the plane, why had no one heard from her for four days? 

 

Sherlock took a table at Le Baron Rouge, ordering a sandwich and coffee. He had no plan to eat, but had noticed he attracted less attention if he went along with the expected. He showed the waitress Molly’s photo, but she recommended he ask a bartender not due to work for another hour. 

He pulled out the small photo album. Cheap, plastic, the kind some places used when people first had film developed. She had written “Warwick” on the front in pen. He began flipping through the images, at first thinking they had been taken at some kind of fancy dress party, nearly everyone wearing similar armor. After a few pages he recognized the background; Warwick Castle. Of course; re-enactors. Judging by the armor, specializing in the War of the Roses. 

No photos of Molly, but she was probably the photographer. Each photo had been carefully labeled; Peter Thompson, Adam Wolfe, Max O’Barr, a woman barely contained in a peasant blouse who’s name had been repeatedly entered and erased was currently labeled Alice Grady. There were many photos of a blonde man with green eyes only listed as David, no last name given. The armaments were impressive, two-handed swords, battle axes, pole arms, even halberds. They weren’t just hobbyists meeting on weekends; this was the level of fidelity English Heritage used in their events. He’d had no idea Molly had ever had an interest in such things.

 

First meeting

She was running for Jacob’s tent before the blonde idiot’s face hit the water. Pushing aside the little man in the friar’s robes, she shoved her way passed the flaps, searching for the white tubing.

“Molly! Get the hell out of my tent! I’ve got customers!” Jacob folded his arms, thinking he’d look mean.

“I need your siphon, Father Jake.” she started throwing open chests.

“I don’t have…”

“You’ve been siphoning off from the festival’s beer kegs to add to your ale, so don’t lie to me, you little thief. Give me the tubing or somebody’s going to die!”

“Under the cot.” Jacob relented.

In a heartbeat, she had it and was racing back to the riverbank. She ran into the water, only as deep as her knees, but deep enough to drown if someone couldn’t lift their head. She knelt, feeling down around his face, trying to find his mouth. With a yelp, she fell backwards. The jerk had bitten her finger, hard enough to draw blood.

She stood, carefully calculated, and then kicked him in the head. Kneeling again, she managed to get one end of the tube into his mouth, hoping he’d figure out the rest by himself. She stood, holding the other end in the air and calling for the guys.

In the end it had taken four men and almost twenty minutes to lift the chain mail and plate armored fool from the water, first to a kneeling posture, then to fully standing. He actually had the nerve to grin at her!

By then, Max had run up with a towel. “Really ought to start wearing a bra under those muslin shirts, Molly.” 

She looked down, remembering how cold the water was. She folded the towel around her shoulders, covering her very obvious nipples.

“My name’s David!” the idiot called, still grinning.

“That’s it.” She whispered, striding over, Max trying to hold her back. “David!” she smiled pure ice. “Looking to emulate Red Sonya’s chain mail bikini, David?”

“Trying to impress you.” his grin was lopsided as he shook more water out of his blonde ringlets.

“Oh!” Molly said it in a tone that made Peter want to duck and cover. “You wanted to make an impression on me! Teeth marks will do that!” She waved the injured hand in front of his face, punching him in the jaw with her other hand.

“Soft places with your fist, hard places with a blunt instrument, Molly.” Max called after her as she strode off, shaking the pain out of both hands and swearing quietly.

David sighed, wiping a drop of blood off his lip. “I think I’m in love!”

 

A tall man approached the table, brown hair in careful waves. “You’re Sherlock Holmes, right? I’m M…” he held out his hand.

“Max O’Barr. Part of the reunion last weekend, I’m guessing.” leaving the album on the table, Sherlock offered him the chair opposite. 

“More of an anniversary, but yeah.” he sat, shrugging out of his coat. “I’m so sorry for your loss. This was the last place I saw her and I thought, I don’t know, I’d come say my goodbyes here.” Max knew what Molly had felt for the man and wasn’t about to be disrespectful.

“Anniversary of what?” Sherlock thought the entire weekend now had to be reassessed. He thought he’d better ask his questions while he had a chance.

Max called the waitress over, ordering himself a beer and Sherlock a fresh coffee. “Mr. Holmes, if I promise to answer any questions you may have, could you start with something a little easier and work your way up to the big things?”

“I don’t follow.” he pulled the notebook and pen from his pocket.

“I’m guessing Molly never talked to you about that time. Hell, I was there and she wouldn’t discuss it with me.” Max was developing a thousand mile stare into space. “I’ll tell you everything I know, but I don’t know it all. Maybe nobody does. I think Molly may have known more than anyone, but she never would tell. It…marked her somehow. She was never the same, no matter what any of us did.”

Max took a minute, and then pulled out his wallet, digging through papers. “I know your Molly, Mr. Holmes. I saw her several times over the last few years. I wonder if you ever met mine.” he handed Sherlock a photo, crinkled around the edges.

 

First kiss

“This would be a lot easier if you could just sit still.” Molly was trying to figure out how many sutures David would need. The catapulted sandbag had made contact where he hadn’t kept up his chain mail repairs, allowing the plate armor to curl and cut into his mid-section.

“I thought you were learning to work on dead people.” he pouted. She had given him a shot of local anesthetic, but he still flinched every time the needle came near him.

“You’ll be a dead person sooner rather than later if you don’t learn to duck.” She split the difference and settled on three. He flinched again as she drew closer. “David, don’t watch me. Don’t look at it and I’ll be done before you know it.”

He settled for staring out the opening of the tent. “Max is in love with you.” It was a little depressing, really. It seemed like every woman he’d met since coming to England had a case on Max. 

“And I love Max. Unfortunately, Max wants Peter, but Peter doesn’t want Max. Heartbreaking, isn’t it?”

It took David a moment to catch up. “You mean Max is…”

“And Peter isn’t. Hadn’t realized it yet, huh?” Molly grinned. “All done, by the way. You can sit up. Give me a minute to bandage you and you can go back out to the fight.”

“So you and Max aren’t together.” David watched her gathering the gauze and tape she wanted to use.

“Not in the biblical sense, no.” The gauze would need to be wrapped all the way around him in order to stay in place. She got it around him once, securing the end, then reaching around for the second time, he caught her, drawing her in close, his mouth tasting of honey and copper. No cologne, his own scent mixing with gasoline, ale and sun on iron plate. 

Molly barely noticed as he eased them back, stretching out along the cot. It wasn’t until she felt his hand on the skin of her waist that she really realized what was happening. “Hold on.” she pushed away from his bare chest. “Moving a little fast here. Usually there’s some time between the first kiss and a shag.”

“How about Friday night?” he nuzzled into her neck.

“For a date or a shag?” she giggled, trying to sit up.

“Hmm…” he watched her putting the first aid supplies away. “Both?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll go out with you Friday, but no promises.”

He grabbed at her sleeve. “Isn’t there an old tradition of the wounded warriors snogging with the nurses instead of going back to battle?”

“You’re incorrigible!” 

“So encourage me!” he kissed her again.

 

It was Molly Hooper, Sherlock had no doubt, but it was like looking at a different woman. Back straight, head held high. A white poet’s shirt, open at the neck, black form fitting trousers and knee high riding boots. She had piled her hair on top of her head but tendrils had escaped, framing her face. Black gloves with wide cuffs holding a wooden staff at least a foot taller than its owner. The biggest difference was the eyes. A confidence there, a fire, and passion he had seen small glimpses of, usually under dread circumstances he regretted later. “She’s not dressed appropriately for the War of the Roses.”

“No, that was us guys.” Max tried to smile. “Molly would wait out the battles, patch us up if needed, then fight in the fantasy tournaments afterwards. Women weren’t allowed on the replica battlefields at that time.”

Sherlock tried to hand the photo back, unsuccessfully, keeping his voice steady. “She was never my Molly.”

Max smiled sympathetically. “Nor mine, I’m assuming for different reasons.” He took a deep, deep swallow of his beer. “She was, however, David Major’s Molly for more than a year. Saturday was the anniversary of David’s death.”


	4. Chapter 4

She kept trying to wake up, to cast off the waves of memory trying to drag her down. So cold, someone kept trying to wrap her in frigid sheets, clinging like jelly. A sore place in her elbow that seemed to pour ice straight into her veins. An electronic throb, running so fast, slowing down and then speeding up. It stopped once and she wanted to gasp at the peace and quiet. Voices, but her mind couldn’t sort the sounds into words, coming down a tube from a million miles away. Something was in her nose but she couldn’t find her hands to bat it away. 

The worst time she neared consciousness, she felt naked to the world. Water on her skin, drawing forth goose bumps she wanted to shrink away from. Someone had parted her thighs, touching her intimately with a sponge. Without thought, her hand shot out to a satisfying crunching sound. Seconds later, the air around her filled with people she couldn’t see, grabbing her arms, binding her. She pulled against the restraints, using the distant feeling of pain to try to keep the nightmares from stealing her away again. As frightening and horrific as things were, the nightmares were infinitely worse.

 

“How close were they?” Sherlock didn’t really want to know. This was all obviously nothing she had ever wanted to share with anyone. Prying may have been necessary, but nothing said he had to like it.

“It was never going to be permanent, but David tried his best. He asked her to marry him on their first date and when she refused, he pushed for her to move in with him. Damned fool had more money than sense. He tried to bury her in flowers and candy, took her anywhere he thought might impress, even sent her off on spa trips and shopping marathons. She got so sick of it that she started insisting all hearts be anatomically correct!”

Sherlock smirked. “That sounds more like Molly.”

Max smiled. “I kept offering to run him off for her. She finally had enough after he bought her a car. She refused the keys, put the chain on her flat door and cried on the phone with me for ten hours. She thought he was such a nice guy, but she couldn’t stand him any more. He was stifling her. She was all prepared to break it off with him when he got…well, when something went badly wrong.”

 

They had been out to dinner when David inexplicably seemed to pour from his chair to the floor. Their fellow diners obviously thought he had hit the wine too hard, maybe had a few drinks while waiting for their table. Molly knew he’d had only his usual few sips, would only have emptied his wine glass once by the time the tab came and they went home. It was several minutes until she could get him back up into the chair again, waving off a call for an ambulance. He’d gone pale beneath his California tan, blinking rapidly and beginning to sweat. His pupils were fine and he kept repeating that he just wanted to go home. She acquiesced, knowing it was only a five minute walk to his flat. Halfway there, he stopped, staring for several minutes through the window of the antique dealer’s at a cheval glass.

She had planned on letting him down tonight, explaining that they just weren’t working out. Now she was making him tea, concerned about his complaints of sudden flashing pain in his head that would disappear a few seconds later. He didn’t seem to have any dizziness, but a couple of times an hour, nausea rose. She made an ice pack, holding it to the back of his head to numb the reflex. David kept repeating how he loved her, how much he needed her. She wondered if it was all a performance to try to keep her, and then felt awful for letting the question rise. For the second time in their history, Molly stayed the night.

 

“So you thought drugs?” Sherlock stirred the sugar into his fresh coffee.

“Yes, but Molly insisted it couldn’t be. She never saw him doing anything, couldn’t find anything anywhere he had ready access to. She even managed to get a vial of blood from him and tested it. Nothing. Warwick, the tournament those photos were taken at was coming up and I wouldn’t let him participate unless she was sure he was clean.”

Sherlock pulled the photo of her from his pocket. “How did it go?”

Max was silent a few moments, jaw clenched. “David almost got her killed. We were trying to fight our way to the castle wall when that idiot just froze on the field. He took a couple of hard hits, but kept on his feet. The other side started lobbing fifty pound sand bags but David never moved. A couple of narrow misses and Molly ran out determined to get him off the field. An outright hit may have killed her, but instead she got clipped hard enough to dislocate her shoulder. We always had ambulances on stand-by, so she got help immediately, but I’d never let David fight with us again.”

“Did you find out what was wrong with him?”

“Not then. I do know Molly called his parents that night, tried to get them to help their golden boy.”

 

It had been two weeks since the horrible tournament at Warwick and Molly still hadn’t heard from David. She had hoped maybe his parents had taken her phone call seriously, had gotten him into a hospital, somewhere he could get some real help. She used the key he had given her to let herself into his flat.

As soon as the door swung inward, she knew something was terribly wrong. It was far too cold for the windows to be open, yet she could hear the wind whisper down the short hallway. The carpet in the entryway shimmered in shards of broken glass, the antique mirror frame hung empty on the wall. A glance through the side door to the kitchen showed a sink full of finely pulverized glass shards, undoubtedly the remains of his various drinking glasses. The knife block stood empty and a padlock sealed away the silverware. Someone (David) had haphazardly brushed flat black paint over the refrigerator door, oven door, even the microwave door. If it reflected and couldn’t be smashed, it was painted over.

The sliding door to his balcony, his television, the glass-topped coffee table all reduced to shards. All his CDs and DVDs had disappeared from the shelves. She wanted to look over the rest of the flat but instinct stopped her. She didn’t know where he was. She could have run out the front door if needed, or dropped the one story from his balcony to the ground, but if he found her in the bathroom or one of the bedrooms, she could get trapped. 

“They got hungry, Molly.” The door to the coat closet was swinging open so quietly. “They were so hungry but I couldn’t feed them. They want the real thing this time, accepting no imitations. Can you help me?” Bronze eyes shining from the dark.

 

“Couldn’t anyone have gotten David hospitalized?” Sherlock knew someone should have realized he could be dangerous.

“David’s parents managed to keep every effort at bay.” Max chased condensation down his beer glass. “He said they were some kind of representatives from the American state department. We used to even joke that his last name wasn’t Majors, that he was here in Europe incognito.”

Sherlock showed Max the labels in Molly’s photo album. “There may have been some truth to that.”

“Shit,” Max rubbed his forehead. “That would explain a few things.”

 

Molly stared out the window of the ferry from England to France, feeling nauseous. She’d never liked wide bodies of water to begin with, but this trip was a living hell. David said his parents were at Annecy, a lake area in France. They had a house in a town usually swarmed with tourists, a rustic getaway that probably cost more than her parents and grandparents had earned in their lifetimes. He would get help, do whatever she and his parents asked, but had insisted she take him to them first. She hadn’t had time to make calls, but when they stopped at her flat to get her passport, she left a note for Max. She and Max had a three day rule; no contact in three days, you went and checked the other person’s flat. She had helped Max fight off a very virulent flu once when he couldn’t reach his phone.

She’d better get back to David. She had left him in the main passenger area, lightly dozing with her jumper draped over his head. As long as he didn’t look at anything reflective, he calmed down. She was hoping he’d be diagnosed with schizophrenia. He was a little old for the onset, but at least it would be treatable. 

 

“Mr. Holmes…”

“Sherlock, please. Mr. Holmes is my brother.”

“Sherlock, “Max leaned in. “Molly left with David and disappeared for a month. After that, I got a call from David’s father saying David had died of a massive glioblastoma, a fast-growing brain tumor on his frontal lobe. He had already had the body cremated and flown back to the states. He wanted me to pick Molly up at Annecy and organize some kind of memorial for David’s British friends. When I got to her, Molly insisted David had died three weeks earlier of drowning. She said David’s family had held her prisoner until the day she woke up to an empty house.”

 

Her suspicions were raised to almost unbearable levels as they drove to the house. The surrounding town was closed, the off season time leaving only the locals, who didn’t need the higher priced shops or the designer cafes. The one police station didn’t even have a car in the lot. She never felt so vulnerable.

David carried their bags into the house while she looked over what she could see from the driveway. No other cars visible, but she assumed his parents had used the garages. A large backyard, meeting the lake with a small dock and boathouse. Comfort seemed built into every facet of this place, yet her dread was choking her. The sun was setting behind the trees, leaving blood red clouds in the cold air.

No other options available, she followed David into the house. The furnace was obviously off, a thin layer of dust across all the surfaces. His parents were not here, had not been here for a long time. She could hear him moving around the second floor. David had dropped his coat over a chair so she searched it for the car keys. She couldn’t stay here, not even for one night. He was getting more dangerous by the hour. She cursed herself as a fool for even following his wishes this far.

His shadow fell across her and she stepped away as she turned, trying to keep as much distance between them as possible. “Your parents aren’t coming, are they, David? Did you even really call them?”

His smile twisted. “I thought we could elope. Get the deed done before they could intervene. Annecy makes such a beautiful honeymoon locale, don’t you agree?” David was closing the distance between them.

“I never agreed to be your wife.” She looked about, familiarizing herself with the room and its contents. Practically anything could be used as a weapon if used properly.

“You didn’t need to.” David purred. “They gave you to me. They gave me your image and promised me that you were mine alone.”

As he darted forward, her arm swept out and a table lamp flew, catching his shoulder without slowing him down. She dodged him once, twice, and then got to the fireplace tools. Three blows landed before he got his hands on the poker, ripping it from her hands. She grimaced. He’d had too much experience fighting with swords for the poker to be effective.

She tried to dive for the bar, but he had grabbed her around the waist just as her fingers curled around the edge of the mahogany wood surface. Her elbows were driving backward, knocking the breath out of him but his grip wouldn’t slacken. She tried to reach out for a heavy cut crystal decanter but his arms were longer.

The pain exploded on the side of her head, leaving her with black spots in her vision and the taste of blood in her mouth. Everything smelled of cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and cloves as the sticky liqueur soaked through her clothes. As the carpet caught her, she saw the chandelier overhead, thousands of surfaces reflecting her horror back at her.

David’s voice getting farther away. “An endless army of mirrors reflecting people to madness and then death.”

 

Max was removing something on a chain from around his neck. “Molly barely talked once I got her into the car and away from that place. I know she tried to file charges, but no one would pay attention, sighting diplomatic immunity. We never doubted her story, but she wouldn’t ever speak of it again. About a week after I got her home, someone left an envelope of photos outside of her flat. She gave it to me, still sealed. They were of David’s autopsy.”

He held the chain and charm out to Sherlock. “This is an Iceni Celtic silver coin, believed to be minted for Boudicca’s armies. I wore it as a good luck charm for all our old battles, even wore it when I got hand fasted to Ian. Will you take it as a retainer? Find out what really happened to my friend?”

Sherlock wove the chain around his fingers. “Do you still have the photos?”

 

The first sensation she had was of being gently rocked. She was cold, breezes stealing away her body heat. Insect noises; she was outside. Trying to move made the pain in her head worse. She opened her eyes for a few seconds, dizziness sweeping over her. Her thighs were touching because she wasn’t in her jeans; she was wearing one of the embroidered muslin nightgowns she wore during weekend long tournaments.

Somewhere very close, David was humming “Greensleeves” and it scared the hell out of her. Not the words she wanted him to be thinking about right then. She tried to get her arms underneath herself, to push her up and away to assess what was happening, but only her right arm moved. David had her around the waist again, pulling her upright and against him.

Molly’s neck tried to hold her head steady as the world moved around them. She froze in shock, and then clung to him desperately, ignoring the cold metal of his breast plate. The world wasn’t moving; they were standing in a rowboat. Looking around through the darkness, she realized they were far from shore. A chorus of color drew her eyes downward. David had bound their left hands together using the multicolor rope the team used for hand fasting ceremonies.

David kissed her where the blood still trickled down her forehead. “And now they will be satisfied. I can kiss my bride.” His mouth invaded, copper trailing across her tongue for only a moment before she felt them falling backwards. She couldn’t tear her mouth away to gasp for air before the calm water closed over their heads.

 

A busboy seemed to be hovering near their table, reluctant to appear forward and interrupt, yet still having something to say. Max finally gestured him over. “Can we help you?”

“Pardon, monsieur.” He kept his eyes on the floor. “Is your American friend all right?”

Max and Sherlock exchanged looks. “I don’t know who you mean.” Max answered.

The boy seemed to squirm under their combined scrutiny. “The pretty femme with the ponies on her shirt. You brought her here Saturday, and then she returned with some other Americans on Sunday. She was so ill, and she dropped these when the ambulance took her away.” He pulled a wallet and smart phone from his grubby apron.

The chair tumbled behind Sherlock as he stood. “Where did they take her?” He reached under the table for the carry-on bag. “Max, its Molly.”

“Hopital Bichat.” The boy bowed, getting out of the way.

Max pocketed the wallet and phone. “I’ll drive you.”


	5. Chapter 5

Max cursed under his breath, eventually leaning on the horn and forcing traffic to let him pull out. “You could have told me she was alive.” He started feeding numbers into his mobile phone, turning the speakerphone function on.

“You didn’t ask.” Sherlock stared out the window. “I still don’t really know who you are, if you have anything to do with this.” He was flipping a small leather square aimlessly.

“Molly’s right; you can be a real prat!” Max stopped as someone answered his call. “Sergeant Roberts, c’est l’agent O’Barr la demande d’aide. Peut-on parler Anglais?”

A shuffling sound, then a gravely voice replied. “Go ahead, Agent O’Barr. How can we help you today?”

Max quickly told the man on the phone where they were and where they were going. “Any word on the unidentified woman brought to Bichat Sunday night?”

“The American? No. We sent her fingerprints to her embassy, but have not heard from them yet. No friends or family have come forth to claim her. We were about to release the few details to the media.”

“She’s a British citizen, you idiot! You should have sent her fingerprints to Interpol!” Sherlock shouted, noticing the police cars pulling alongside Max’s car.

Max’s jaw tightened. Proper procedures had not been followed. “Do you know her condition?”

A pause. “Sorry, monsieur. She is still listed as critical. No diagnosis listed at this time.”

He punched the steering wheel as he sped up, matching the police cars. “The escort has arrived here. I’ll be at the hospital shortly with her husband. No delays, understood? Her friends and family thought she was deceased.” Max hung up without waiting for an answer. “You know, we may get there and it isn’t her.”

“Molly’s credit cards were used at Le Baron Rouge Sunday night.” Sherlock shrugged. “People with a common language in a foreign land tend to congregate together. One British accent in a group of ten or fifteen American ones…”

“And the British gets misidentified.” Max nodded. “Just another English speaker. The bus boy must have found the wallet after the ambulance left or the medics would have brought it along.”

“Exactly. All the witnesses try to help, tell the authorities what they think they know, but unfortunately, they just pass on erroneous information.” He began perusing the wallet. “Eyewitnesses are notoriously wrong. Best motives and worst results.”

“Never let my boss hear you say that!” Max laughed. “He thinks witnesses are a gendarme’s best friend.”

“You were part of that little group; doctorial students recreating the War of the Roses on weekends.” Sherlock began pulling a card loose. “How did you end up a gendarme?”

Max shrugged. “I sewed up too many bullet holes. Thought I might be better at stopping them from happening in the first place.”

“Ah, then tell me; are you a gendarme with a Bond fetish or the other way round?” Sherlock held aloft the British Secret Service identification. “I guess I’m not the only prat.”

Max snatched the card back. “Pick pocketing is a crime, you know.” He tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Molly doesn’t know, and I’d like to keep it that way.” He drummed his thumbs on the wheel. “I’m just a surgeon they call in sometimes.”

 

She had expected a fight all the way, but David seemed to go limp as soon as they were submerged. She pushed as far from him as she could, her fingers trying to get purchase on the knot. It had started swelling as the water saturated its strands. A traditional hand fasting knot was easily slipped from, but then again, both her hands would have been inside the knot. Her lungs began burning hot, contrasting with the frigid water. She tried pulling hard, turning her wrist inside the cords, loosening nothing. Stinging as blood surged to her sinuses, heartbeat hammering in her ears.

 

Even as he approached her private room, it was all wrong. Too many machines crowding the small hospital bed, the rails up. He couldn’t see her from the doorway.

Max started to grasp his shoulder, then seemed to think better of it. “Diamonds and dynamite come in small packages, Sherlock. She’s going to be okay.” He waited in a chair in the hall.

“Save the platitudes.” he had to force himself over the threshold. In some ways it would be easier to think this wouldn’t be her; that she’d be somewhere else, maybe trapped, imperiled, but not so close to an edge he could do nothing about. He could hear the heart monitor, counting silently. Somewhere between one hundred thirty and one hundred fifty beats a minute; raging. The rhythm was uneven, racing staccato, and then pausing to catch up. 

Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the blood pressure monitor, trying to brace himself. The numbers there were no solace; low, far too low. The I.V. would be helping with that, but it was chilling none the less.

He could hear her breathing, short sharp pants whistling slightly past her teeth. He closed his eyes. If he didn’t look, maybe it wouldn’t be…

“Gnhhh…” 

He knew that sound. Several months before, he had been talking to Molly as she pulled just-cleaned instruments out of the autoclave. Someone had put a scalpel in wrong way round and it had cut into her palm. A small wound, but deep, He had kept her injured hand lifted over her head while she scrambled to keep the blood off the surgical tools. In a few minutes, the bleeding slowed and she bandaged the cut, joking that at least the wound would be clean. He stopped making cracks about wasting an autoclave in a department whose patients weren’t prone to infection after that. She had made that exact sound when the scalpel had cut into her flesh.

It was her, but everything within him wished it wasn’t. Molly was covered in a thin film of sweat which curled the hair around her face, plastering it to her forehead. Her eyelids were dark, sunk in, lips cracked with dehydration. Her bare heels had already kicked the top sheet to the floor, pushing for purchase against the fitted sheet and mattress. Her hands were tightened into curled fists, pulling with all she could gather at the Velcro cuffs holding her down. She kept raising her head from the pillow, fighting an unseen enemy, then dropping back, the tendons visible in her neck speaking of agony. 

He pressed his cheek to her forehead. Far, far too hot. Not enough to damage her brain, but near to it. Four days of this must have exhausted her, yet she was still fighting, still hanging on. 

She seemed to have calmed slightly, so he moved to the far side of the bed, dropping the bed rail, removing the Velcro cuff and watching as her freed hand grasped a tight fistful of sheet. A narrow band of abraded skin reddened her wrist where she had tried to pull herself loose.

He pulled the lone chair to the bedside, lowered the rail and removed the other cuff, weaving his fingers with hers. Her grip was strong, but not uncomfortable. He could feel the callus years spent wielding a scalpel had made on her index finger. 

One handed, Sherlock began searching through the medical supplies and debris on the small table beside the bed. He found a small pot labeled “hydratant pour les levres” and opened it. It smelled like lemon jelly, but it would have to do. Getting some on his finger, he ran it across first her top lip, then the bottom. She must have split her bottom lip at some point and he could see the thin line of blood that had dried, threatening to crack farther.

“Max!” he called to the man waiting in the hall. “Get a cup of ice chips.”

“Ice chips?” he stuck his head round the door.

“She’s dehydrated, but if she tries to swallow, she could choke. Ice chips get around that problem. Check the maternity ward if the nurses don’t have any.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” Max headed down the hall at a trot.

He stepped into the small bath, wanting a little more privacy for this. Sherlock pulled out his mobile, speed dialing.

 

Panic and a tsunami of adrenaline, every muscle screaming to breathe but her brain knowing she’d be dead in seconds. Her fingernails were tearing against the rope. She had to make it out. Blurred images across her mind. She thought you were supposed to see your past as you were dying. A fuzzy lump with yellow eyes. Her name, barely legible on an office door. Several women, giggling and nudging her happily. Long pale fingers reaching…no. Fantasy. Made up. Stop it. Got to breathe…

 

John was getting nowhere fast with the bartender at Le Baron Rouge. The man had seemed fine with English until John wanted information. Between the late night crowd jostling around and the bartender waving him away dismissively, he was at a loss. Maybe he’d have to have Mycroft check Sherlock’s GPS signal again.

He almost missed the ringing in his pocket. Think of the devil…”What happened to ‘I promise I won’t take off on my own again, John’? Did you delete that along with ‘I promise I won’t leave dissections uncovered on the kitchen…”

“How fast can you get to Bichat Hospital, Paris?” the voice on the phone sounded tight, troubled. It frightened John a little.

“You found Molly?” John was already outside, hailing a cab. “Is she all right? You aren’t hospitalized, are you?” He didn’t want to call Mycroft about that.

There was a pause on the line. “She’s got septicemia, John, blood poisoning. They haven’t found the cause yet. No identification and no medical records, so they gave her antibiotics she was allergic to. She had a bad reaction.”

John instructed the cab driver, and then returned to the phone. “How bad a reaction?” Septicemia could be lethal on its own. Molly was in a good age group to survive with proper treatment, but…

“Anaphylactic shock. Her heart stopped and they lost her for three minutes. They took her off the respirator two days ago. She’s delirious. They strapped her to the bed after she broke the ward sister’s nose during a sponge bath.”

“The delirium is the septicemia and fever. I’ll be there as soon as I can, but I can’t be her primary physician, Sherlock. I’m not licensed in France.” Something Molly said Saturday came back to John. “Have them test her for listeria. The news says there’s an outbreak and she may have been exposed.”

“What I can do?”

“Keep her calm, try to cool her down but not fast enough to chill her. She may fight it. Sometimes people with high fevers think they’re freezing instead. Sherlock?” The line had gone dead.

 

She shook her head wildly, feeling her hair drift like seaweed. An instinct she wanted desperately to believe whispering that she was dreaming, but the fear of the water pushing against her couldn’t be denied. Finally she seemed to get a finger into the knot on her wrist. If her screaming lungs could just hold on a little longer…

 

The crash had been her I.V. stand colliding with the floor. Molly was pawing at her elbow, trying to get the tape off and pull the needle from her arm. Her eyes were open, but rolled back, unseeing.

Sherlock managed to grab her hands, pull them away before any real damage was done. Tipping the stand back upright with his foot wasn’t as easy. “Molly, stop it, you’ll make yourself worse.”

He was trying to be careful, not hurt her, but she was fighting with what strength she had left. Her fingernails were too short to really damage his hands, but she managed to get a knee up against his ribs and shoved him off the bed. 

He knew what she had to be feeling, had been there himself, twice when he had detoxed. Twisted in hospital sheets, he swore he had been sweating gasoline, weeping nitroglycerin while his mind threw up the vilest images it could plumb from the depths. At home, it could have been anything for her from the most gruesome autopsies to a zombie apocalypse rising from her own morgue. Here, having just met with her “old friends”, he was willing to bet he knew what was starring in her nightmares.

“Stop it!” he used the same tone he used frequently on Lestrade as he shook her by the shoulders, determined not to let them strap her down again. He knew if they had tried that with him, he would have done whatever it took to break free, injuries be damned. “Molly, it isn’t real!” He could feel her breath hitch.

He gripped her right hand in his left, easing her back down on the bed. “You’re fighting off a poison, Molly, hallucinating. Whatever you’re seeing, whatever you’re fighting isn’t really there, I promise!”

She seemed to be relaxing a little, no longer fighting to sit up, but her hands still clenched and her feet still dug at the mattress. He tried to push her damp hair away from her face. “Don’t you dare die on me, Molly. Don’t you even think about it. I didn’t come running all this way just to bury you anyway. You wanted an answer and I don’t have one yet, but I may be getting closer. You’ve got to hang on, though. I can’t figure this out without you. Something got stolen from you, stolen from me and I’m not about to let that just be. I have to know what happened, Molly. You have to endure this.”

He had noticed the longer he spoke, the more she seemed to relax. He cast about for something to drone on about other than his swirling thoughts of the War of the Roses, brain tumors and missing time. Discussing those would only upset her further. His mind settled on a bit of nonsense he’d memorized as a child:

“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves  
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:  
All mimsy were the borogoves,  
And the mome raths outgrabe.”

“I’ve got the ice.” Max spoke quietly from the doorway, stepping in long enough to hand him the polystyrene cup. “Sherlock, I know you don’t think there’s any reason to trust me, but all it would take is a couple of calls and I could get privileges here. I could be her doctor until she gets back on her feet.”

 

As soon as the rope had loosened enough, she pushed for the surface, willing her lungs to hold on just a few more seconds. She could see the moon through the water, guiding her upwards. She was shocked to reach that strange point where the surface seemed to reflect everything below it with astounding clarity. It wasn’t working, muscle memory was taking over and she was going to breathe. 

 

The layout of Bichat was convoluted, but John was used to the far more complicated layout of St. Bart’s. Sherlock’s shouting helped him with the last part. As he came around a corner a large brown haired man was shouting into a mobile phone, gesturing wildly. 

A few feet from the door, he had to dodge as a large sodden lump flew out of the room, landing with an undignified splat. John knelt to touch it. A cooling blanket, it was supposed to be submerged in water, wrung out, and then draped over fever or burn patients. Someone had taken the name far too seriously. The blanket was oozing ice cold water.

He could hear a heartbreaking keening noise, and above it…Sherlock yelling in French? The image from the door stopped him in his tracks. Molly, it had to be Molly, curling up on wet sheets, her I.V. stand tipped against the bed, crying out repeatedly. If that blanket had been on her… John pushed his way behind the two orderlies, grabbing a towel from the bathroom, determined to get her dried off. 

“Get them out of here, Max, or I’m going to send them down to A and E!” Sherlock’s voice sounded colder than the blanket had been. He jumped as Molly shifted, thinking someone had crept to the other side of the bed. “John!”

The large man rushed in, shoving at the orderlies and growling until they exited. “Okay, Sherlock, Molly’s my patient now.”

John shoved the towel into Sherlock’s hand, whirling on the newcomer. “Just what the hell did they think they were doing? That blanket was frigid! The shock could have killed her!”

“John, this is Max O’Barr, for some unknown reason, Molly’s friend. Max, this is John Watson. From now on, what he says is gospel, understood?”


	6. Chapter 6

She broke the surface, pulling in the biting air as fast as her lungs could move. The stars had never shined so bright. She wanted to curl up in a ball, weep, scream, maybe throw up, and then sleep for a month. How was she going to explain any of this to anyone? David was gone. She hadn’t saved him; had barely saved herself. Who was going to tell his parents he had died? How he died? She tried floating for a few moments, trying to gather the strength to pull herself into the rowboat. Where the hell was the rowboat? It hadn’t tipped, flooded, fallen to the bottom with them; it would have hit them on the way down. She looked around wildly. Except for the ripples she was causing, the lake was as smooth as glass.

The screams started then, although she fought them as hard as she could. She knew they could make her feel better, but she couldn’t afford to waste what strength she had left. The dock was so small in the distance and she was on her own. The one thing she held onto was the promise to herself; she would not die here, disappear into nothing, be convenient. She wouldn’t give the harpy the satisfaction. Unfolding her fists, she swam for shore.

 

John Watson was rapidly and gracelessly unloading the supply cabinet onto the floor. “There’s got to be a blanket somewhere!”

Max found one on a cart in the hall. “Here. This do?”

John took it, snapped the folds out and cocooned her in it. He rubbed her arms, trying to get a look under her tousled hair. “Molly? Molly, its John. Can you hear me?” 

“Why a blanket?” Sherlock was trying to get as much water out of her hair as possible.

“It will hold her own body heat in, which isn’t good, but it should stop her damp skin making her shiver. If she shivers, it will be like she’s exercising; it will bring her temperature right up.” He grabbed the other man’s wrist. “Sherlock, I can do this. I can help her, but you have to let me do my job, all right?”

“That bed has got to get changed. She’s going to need fresh clothing, too.” Max flipped through the hospital directory. “Dr. Watson, there’s a sports medicine clinic on the first floor. I could go confiscate one of their spa tubs; shut off the heat and load in ice until it was tepid bath water. It would have Epsom salts in it, but that wouldn’t do her any harm.”

“Good idea, but leave it as a warm bath. We can add more ice if we need it.” John started removing sensors from where they were stuck on her skin.

“I’ll warn the ward sisters about the monitors. Give me a five minute head-start.” Max was already out the door.

“I’ll keep an eye on him, but Max doesn’t seem a bad guy. Anything I should know?” John pushed a button, watching the monitor screen fade out.

“Just being cautious; give you the details later. How long have you been in Paris?” He checked her pulse absently.

“About an hour less than you. I needed something to blog about.” John stole a sideways glance. “How did you know she wasn’t on the plane?” The dirty look told him that answer wasn’t coming soon.

 

“How could you let that godless bastard bring his whore into my house?” The voice got higher, screeched more as it went.

Molly gasped, coughing water from her throat. She must have fallen asleep, face to the tide. Not good. The cold was cutting so deep, numbing her movements, her breath, and her thought. She just kept telling herself not to die here. She’d slip beneath the waves and just disappear. Max would come looking after he found her note, but she hadn’t left enough details, hadn’t known enough details. She wasn’t done yet. Looking up, she thought someone was on the dock ahead. Great. Hallucinating. She’d try the backstroke for a while. It was slower, but it kept her nose and mouth above water. Reality and the stars kept swirling away into something so peaceful it terrified her.

 

Max had loaded the spa with enough ice that it had overflowed onto the floor, swirling out built-in drain holes. “The Epsom salts should help her skin, but I got some shampoo from the locker room. Think I could wash her hair? She’s got to be uncomfortable.”

John checked the temperature with his wrist, grabbed the ice bucket and emptied more water onto the floor. “We’ll see if we can ease her in at the right angle.” To his surprise, Sherlock had already draped his coat and jacket over an exercise bicycle and rolled up his sleeves. “It’s ready.”

He got an arm around beneath her arms, the other under her knees and lifted, staying still while John pulled the gurney away. With such a low body weight, three pounds must have seemed a lot. Careful not to slip on the wet floor, he eased her head down where Max had left a folded towel hanging over the edge. Her breath hitched and she stiffened for a moment but then seemed to relax into the barely warm water. Max handed him a flannel.

“So far, so good.” John nodded. “Sherlock, let me know if she starts shivering. We’ll add a little warm water until we’re ready to get her out.” He found a mesh bag usually used for sport equipment, loaded some ice and began stirring it in the water near her feet.

He lifted her shoulders a bit while Max poured a bucket of warm water over her hair. He wrung out the flannel, chasing drops that tracked across her face. It took Sherlock a moment to realize the fever had actually chapped her cheeks, making her appear to blush. At least she seemed to be breathing a little easier.

John watched Max work the shampoo through Molly’s hair, from the scalp downwards. He was a bit surprised Sherlock wasn’t raising a bit of hell about it. “Max, how’d you get those scars on your arms?” They were thick, more than an inch wide in places, and very ragged.

As the bucket refilled, Max unbuttoned his shirt, showing the scar in fact ran across his chest and both forearms. “Trebuchet accident. The idiot in charge wound it way too tight and the rope snapped. If I’d had my armor on, it would have just knocked me over, but I hadn’t suited up yet. Blood everywhere. Molly threw a fit.”

“Trebuchet? You were playing with a siege engine?” 

Sherlock kept the shampoo from running into her eyes as Max rinsed her hair. “Re-enactors, John. Max and Molly used to do War of the Roses reenactments.”

John tested several sentences before settling on one. Obviously the details coming later would be stranger than he had thought. “I guess that explains your tattoo as well.”

Sherlock hadn’t noticed it until then; a heraldic rose outline tattooed in black just below Max’s collarbone. “Shouldn’t that be red or white? Did you fight for Lancaster or York?”

“York, usually.” Max combed through her hair with his fingers, easing knots loose. “White can be hard to maintain in a tattoo. Besides, sometimes when too many troops showed up on one side of a battle, we got asked to switch over for the day. We called it the Plantagenet tattoo and we all had it, even Molly.”

“Where? I’ve never seen it!” John seemed scandalized.

“Stay her doctor long enough and you will.” Max grinned. “I only saw it because I held her hand while it was being done. Poor Sherlock would have to have special permission!”

John had expected the jibe to get some reaction out of Sherlock, yet his gaze was locked on Molly’s face.

“Max, keep talking. Talk about anything, but keep talking.” Sherlock watched closely. Her respiration had gone up slightly and she seemed vaguely uneasy. Her hands were curling again, her feet pushing gently against the tub. 

“Um, okay. Did I tell you I have a daughter?” Max began braiding Molly’s hair. “Her name is Janine. Beautiful little thing. Your hair color, Sherlock, but John’s eye color. I can never get her to shower long enough before bed for her hair to dry. Every night I get her to tell me what she learned at school while I braid her wet hair so it isn’t a Gordian knot when she wakes up. Molly hasn’t met her yet, but…”

“She killed him, Max.” her voice so quiet it was more a breath than a whisper. 

“Molly?’ Max leaned closer.

“It’s all my fault. She killed him and it’s all my fault. She’s killed me, too. Oh, god, Max. You have to find me. Don’t let me disappear. Don’t let me…” She was writhing now, pushing against the metal walls.

“Sherlock…” John needed her calmed down.

“Molly, it isn’t real. You aren’t there anymore. It was over a long time ago. Can you remember?” Sherlock scanned her face for any sign of recognition. Her eyes were still rolled back and she began trying to push her way out of the tub. He leaned in, as close to her ear as he could without needing to whisper. “Find me, Molly. I’m in your memory somewhere. Find me and I’ll get you out,”

 

She hadn’t believed it when her hand touched wood, but somehow she had reached the dock. She felt her way along, finding a small ladder but lacking the strength to climb. She needn’t have worried. Someone had reached down, pulling her up by her arm.

He was unkempt, dark hair, dark eyes, but he would have been her savior if he hadn’t immediately shaken her, hard. He was yelling but she couldn’t understand him. Suddenly acutely aware of what little she had on, she tried to raise her arms, cover herself. 

He had an arm around her waist, half-dragging her back toward the house. She wanted to fight, knew she could have beaten him a few hours ago, but she just had nothing left. Giving up was suddenly a very real option.

Movement on shore caught her eye as she still tried to wriggle loose. A draft horse, blacker than the night around it. Blue steel armor. Her Black Knight. She wanted to laugh, never seeing herself as the damsel in distress. Wait, Max’s eyes were brown.

The ogre was apparently tired of her struggles. He twisted her in his grip, smacking her hard enough that she tasted blood. Part of her staggered back a few feet, stunned by separation. The part of her the ogre still held threw her over his shoulder and stormed to the house. The white room was there. She never knew exactly how long she’d been locked in it, only that she had been entirely alone until the day she awoke to find a key pushed through the door instead of breakfast. Max arrived a few hours later and she left the memories behind as she’d crossed the threshold.

The part of her left on the dock took what felt like the first deep breath in a very long time. On shore, a black knight with blue eyes waited in the black taxi. She curled up in the ridiculous orange blanket beside him, drifting into sleep. He wouldn’t let her disappear.

 

The ward sisters had used privacy screens to shield Molly’s modesty as they dried her off and dressed her in a nightshirt Max bought her in the gift shop. It had a picture of the Spitter gargoyle from Notre Dame de Paris on it and Sherlock thought it was hideous.

Her bed had been stripped and remade with fresh sheets. John and Max hooked up the machines again. Molly had tested positive for listeria and the new IV bag had the antibiotics already in it. Her heart rate and temperature had leveled out. Now all they could do was wait.

Ian O’Barr arrived an hour later, bringing fresh shirts and the envelope of photographs that had been delivered to Molly’s door so long ago. He seemed Max’s opposite in all aspects; short where Max was tall, blonde instead of brunette, quiet instead of loud. He handed each a shirt individually, stopping to kiss Max on the cheek and letting him know who was babysitting Janine.

John stretched out his arms, amazed the dress shirt hadn’t ridden up his arms. “How on earth did you get the size right?”

Ian’s eyes dipped to the floor for a moment in a gesture John had seen Molly use. “I’m a pathologist, Dr. Watson. Your website has photos. I’m kind of an expert at the size of bodies.”

“Okay, creepy that.” John snatched the envelope out of Sherlock’s hands. “No. You are not going to examine autopsy photos of one of Molly’s old boyfriends where she may wake up and see it. Just no. Take it out in the hall.”

Sherlock dragged chairs together and he and Max arranged fifteen photos and one CAT scan side by side. John watched from the doorway, keeping his eye on the patient. 

“What’s bothering you, Ian?” Sherlock hadn’t bothered to get his glass out.

“I’ve fired associates for better work than this.” Ian sighed.

“Details?”

“Not many. First off, the photos themselves have aged badly, as if improper paper and chemistry were used. Second, the camera is perpetually slightly out of focus. The body appears to be David Majors, but the images are too fuzzy for certainty. Third, the photos are badly positioned. No images of the face clearly in profile or straight on. Fourth, no images show the upper left quadrant of the head. Fifth, the out-of-date CAT scan indicates a tumor on the frontal lobe of the brain, yet no photos of the skull opened or of the tumor itself. Sixth, there are no markings or identification to show what lab was used, who may have been present at the time, or even a date stamp. Should I continue?” Ian seemed braced for an argument.

“No need.” Sherlock looked at John. “This isn’t David Majors.”

“You’re sure?” Max was astounded. 

“You should be as well.” Sherlock smiled. “Max, you said you all had the Plantagenet tattoo. Where was David’s?”

“Oh, shit. It should have been right there.” He indicated a spot high on the corpse’s back.

“Then the photos haven’t aged badly. This autopsy was performed three, maybe even five years before David’s time of death.” Ian nodded.

“One identity with at least three deaths. Max, what did you and Molly wander into?” Sherlock’s eyes were shining.


	7. Chapter 7

Hours passed as Molly’s temperature slowly eased, her heart rate evening out as her blood pressure neared normal. Her sleep had become deep, dreamless. The listeria was being fought off and the accumulated toxins were being filtered out of her blood. John and Max took turns sitting at bedside, monitoring, changing bags on her I.V., scribbling notes on her chart. Normally, they could have worked out a rotating schedule, even blocks of time split between them where each could eat, grab a quick nap, a shower. Instead, the time was divided by which of them Sherlock felt a need to question.

Sherlock dragged a chair into position in the hallway so he could see Molly, continue to review the photographs, and discuss what little he could piece together without disturbing her. He and Ian exhausted what could easily be discerned from the images, but they hadn’t held much. Ian postulated that perhaps whoever had sent the photos had known Molly was a medical student of some type, not realizing as a pathology student, she would spot the flaws.

After a while, Ian opened his satchel, starting his laptop and finding a surface for a portable scanner. Scanning off the autopsy photos and Molly’s photos of David from Warwick, he took measurements, notes in a piece of software Sherlock hadn’t seen outside of a lab. 

John brought coffee, very dark and very bitter. The darker the roast, the less caffeine lingered, almost rendering it pointless. Sherlock thought he had that look again, the one that said “you don’t want to hear this, but I think it needs saying anyway.”

“I know you’d rather cut off your left foot,” John began, “but have you thought about calling Mycroft? If David’s family were involved in diplomacy, maybe he could help.”

He watched her shift, turn on her side, pushing the sheet away. “I will if I have to, but until we know more, it’s pointless.” Sherlock grimaced at the ebony liquid. “I want to see what Lestrade comes up with and talk to Molly before that. She left David’s last name off the photographs; she must have at least been suspicious he was using a pseudonym, maybe even knows his real name.”

“She may not be in any shape to answer questions any time soon.” John swirled the bitterness in the paper cup.

“I thought you said she was healing well.” He scanned the monitors, looking for what he might have missed.

“She is, remarkably well for how sick she got, but that’s not what I mean.” He had been debating how to approach Sherlock with this. “Whatever happened to her in that month years ago obviously traumatized her. Max and I were comparing notes and I think she may have even suffered PTSD as a result.”

“Symptoms?” Sherlock’s jaw set. Could he have missed something like that? Something that had damaged her so badly?

“Avoidance. Max says it took him four years to talk her into coming to France to see him, and she made him swear it would be only a weekend and only within the city of Paris. She flew here because she’s afraid of large bodies of water. She told Max she thought she’d have panic attacks if she tried to use the Chunnel. As far as any of the friends know, she’s never spoken about that month to any one. It was obvious downstairs that she has nightmares about it. Classic signs. I should know.”

“You think she may not accurately remember what happened?”

John sighed. “She said whoever killed David had killed her, too. She’s not dead.”

“Sherlock?” Ian was turning the chair his laptop rested on. “I think you should see this.”

Max started to come out of Molly’s room, but stayed as an orderly went in with some papers.

“I did a rough reconstruction of the face of the man in the autopsy photographs.” Ian showed the three dimensional wire frame of a face. “This is nothing I’d want to testify to in court, but I believe this,” he called up an image of a blonde man with closed eyes “is the face as a portrait.”

“And how does it compare to Molly’s photos of David?” From the corner of his eye, Sherlock watched the orderly leave her room.

“That is where it gets interesting.” Ian opened an image of a smiling David with the other face superimposed over it. “As you can see, they are remarkably similar, but not the same man. David’s brow is heavier, the other man’s nose wider, yet all of the shapes seem the same; eyes, chin, ears, even the nose seem the same shape just distorted.”

“You’re thinking they’re related.” John marveled at the comparison.

Sherlock hissed. “Not the War, after. The Tower.”

“John,” Max stood in the doorway of Molly’s room. “Can we switch? I want to see the pictures.”

“Um, yeah.” John wanted to think for a moment. “We better think about getting more food in. I think I’d kill for a sausage roll.”

Max laughed. “Don’t let the locals hear you! That’s still a sore subject!”

Falling straight into habit, John looked over each monitor separately. A replacement bag sat on the table next to her drip stand and he read every word to be sure it was just what he and Max had ordered. He manually checked her pulse just to be sure, not putting full trust in the machines. The wristband from the hospital had been green and he noticed it had been changed to blue. The orderly must have changed it now that they had a full diagnosis. He read it over to be sure the information was still correct.

“Max,” John called from the doorway. “Did you look over this wristband? They got Molly’s name wrong.”

“What?” Max shouldered his way in, reaching for her arm.

“The last one said ‘Molly Hooper’, I checked it myself.” John said. “This one says “Molly Hunter’. You didn’t notice?”

Max was running his fingers along the plastic strip, finding a small metal wafer hidden within it. It had to be one of those locators like shops used to keep people from stealing. If the bracelet (or the patient) left the building, it would trigger an alarm. Reaching into a nearby drawer, he found scissors and cut it from her wrist. He tucked the remains into the back of the drawer, closing it with a solid click.

“Problem?” Sherlock hovered at the door.

“Maybe. Lawrence Majors, David’s father, kept calling her ‘Molly Hunter’. I corrected him a few times, but he just kept doing it.” Max’s eyes looked a little haunted.

“Call the admissions desk, see if it was deliberate.” Sherlock pulled John out into the hall. 

“How could he know she was here?” John asked. “We just found her ourselves!” 

“It can’t mean anything.” He started gathering the photos back into the envelope. “Can Molly be moved?”

“I’d rather not!” John started reviewing her status in his mind. “I suppose if we have to, we could…”

Max’s voice was getting louder as he snarled on the phone. John felt the odd man out since it was evident both Ian and Sherlock could understand Max’s half of the confrontation. 

Ian handed John his nearly empty computer bag. “Pack what she will need. I think we may need to do what Max calls ‘bugging out’.”

The phone slammed and Max came out already putting his jacket and coat back on. “The son of a bitch is downstairs! He says he’s got her birth certificate, marriage license, passport, and all her papers with the name “Hunter” on them!”

“Not just visiting?” John tossed a couple of blankets from a supply cart to a nearby chair.

“No! He says he’s taking his daughter-in-law to an undisclosed private hospital for security reasons!” Max pulled Ian aside for a moment.

“Can he really do that? Just waltz in and take her?” John started unloading medical supplies into the bag.

“If the paperwork appears to be in order, who’s to stop him? We told them I was her husband, but we don’t have any forged documents to challenge his with.” Sherlock’s fingers were flying across the keys of his smartphone.

Ian went down the corridor at a trot as Max approached them. “I’m going to go downstairs and try to slow all this down. Ian will bring you a wheelchair, than get out to the parking garage to wait for you. We’ve got a place in mind where you ought to be safe.”

FD FD FD

A willowy woman opened the door to her small ground floor flat, gesturing Sherlock and John in while Ian parked the car in an enclosed garage, hiding the license plates from any interest. She introduced herself as Michelle and the little raven haired girl as Max and Ian’s daughter Janine. “Come. Le petit femme can use my room.” 

The bedroom Sherlock was lead to was gleaming ivory, edged in gold paint. Michelle pulled back the duvet and sheets and Sherlock eased Molly down on the bed. John asked, then removed a small framed photo from the wall, using its hook as a temporary I.V. stand. They left the light on, only swinging the door around without closing it.

In the main room, Ian had Janine on his lap, his mobile pressed to his ear. Not wanting to upset the child, he merely shook his head. No answer from Max yet. “Come, child. We need to make tea for our guests, yes?”

The child smiled shyly, rubbing her eyes and following him into the kitchen.

Sherlock was reading something on his smartphone while John pawed through the hastily packed bag. Molly’s I.V. would need to be switched soon. “John, Lestrade says David Majors didn’t exist until the semester before he joined the re-enactors.”

“So that’s when he assumed the name?”

“Interestingly,” Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t heard the question. “he also found records of an American diplomat, Lawrence Campbell, who owns property in Annecy, France. Mr. Campbell’s son David died by a self-inflicted gunshot wound in Kent four years earlier.”

John stopped. “The photos from the autopsy didn’t show part of the head. You think they were of David Campbell? Molly’s David was impersonating him?”

“More like pretending to be him.” Sherlock tapped the mobile against his leg. “That still wouldn’t explain why Lawrence Campbell would come to the hospital to take Molly.”

“Perhaps he saw the television news?” Michelle set the tea tray on a low table.

“Pardon?” John, starved, reached for a biscuit. 

“I saw the report myself. A woman hospitalized with no identification that the police needed assistance with. I’m sure it was her.” Michelle poured, handing John the cup.

“Monsieur?” A small hand was tugging at Sherlock’s sleeve. “May I show you something?” Janine was pulling him down the hall, past Molly’s room, to a small study. Noting that John seemed to already be in “chatting” mode, he followed her.

FD FD FD

Molly had been gradually waking up, drifting in and out. Things had gotten quiet again, which should have been a blessing, but there had been comfort in familiar voices, even if she couldn’t identify them.

This time when her eyes opened, the shock jarred her wide awake. The white room. How had she gotten back here? That didn’t really matter, the important thing was to get away as quickly as possible. The door wasn’t closed all the way, let alone locked, but she dreaded that could change at any time.

She grimaced, picking the tape from her elbow. It left a residue she’d have to wash off later. The needle slid out easily, but the puncture bled a little and she had nothing to staunch it with.

She swung her legs over the edge, the carpet sending strange tingles up her calves. Carefully, she eased her weight onto her feet, wobbling a bit, dizzy, but staying put wasn’t an option. She held onto the bed to guide her first few steps, certain this was a bad idea, but still better than the alternative.

She’d need a weapon of some kind before she went out that door. No way to tell where the ogre had gotten to, but she wasn’t going to give up this time. Clinging to the handles, she checked the closet. She would have rolled her eyes if she wasn’t afraid she’d pass out. What was it about her and golf clubs? Well, it would have to do.

The door moved soundlessly as she eased it open enough to pass through. A darkened hall, one way leading to another small door, but the other lead into a bigger room. A figure with its back to her was silhouetted by a lamp on a table near a sofa.

She raised the club over her shoulder, reminding herself to use the force of her left hand and guide it with her right. The man was blonde, not the ogre, but she didn’t think she could afford to take chances.

Just as she began to swing, something grabbed the club, wrenching it out of her hands and spinning her around. She tried to keep herself upright by pushing against the wall, but the whole world was canting and the floor was rushing at her. She was caught before the floor got to her. She looked up into blue green eyes.

“I don’t think you want to brain Ian.” Sherlock smirked.


	8. Chapter 8

Molly was trying to push herself to her feet and pull her nightshirt down her legs at the same time, looking at Sherlock as if he were a ghost. “Okay, now I’m confused.”

“Understandable. You’ve been unconscious for several days.” Bending, he lifted her in the same way as he had when he had placed her in the spa tub. “You shouldn’t be out of bed yet.” Sherlock was surprised by how she immediately stiffened.

“Put me down.” No yell, but her voice was firmer than he was used to. “I’m serious, Sherlock. I hate to be carried. I’m not a porcelain doll that’s going to shatter under pressure. Just put me down.”

“Two hours ago, you were in hospital.” He pushed the bedroom door open with his back. “Humor me.” He sat her on the edge of the bed as the others dashed in, her hand grasping his as she jumped in surprise.

“Mon ami!” Ian reached out, his thumbs brushing her cheeks as he kissed her on the forehead. “I wanted to see you while you were here, but not like this.”

“I almost hit you!” Molly pushed at him. “When did you bleach your hair? Where’s Max?”

“Someone to meet first.” Ian lifted the child to the bed. “Molly Hooper, this is our daughter Janine O’Barr. Janine, this is…”

“Molly!” The girl grinned. “She’s a pathologist, just like you!” Shyly, she offered a tube of sweets.

“Thank you. Oh, violets! I haven’t had one of those in ages!” She slipped a pale disk in her mouth.

“Janine wants to be a pathologist when she grows up.” Ian smiled. “She was showing Sherlock a frog dissection model our hostess Michelle crocheted for her to practice with.”

“It was very accurate, Michelle.” Sherlock addressed the woman still hovering in the doorway. “Did you record the pattern?”

Molly’s eyes were wide, seeing the other person at the door. “John?” Her eyes darted between the three men.

Ian gathered the girl close. “It is bedtime for you, mon enfant. Can you say good night to our guests?” He carried her out as she waved. Michelle followed close behind, closing the door behind her.

“I’m surprised, Molly.” John sat on the opposite edge of the bed while she slid under the duvet. “Why’d you take the I.V. out? You could have just brought the bag with you.” He began replacing it in her arm.

Her eyes seemed a bit foggy. “I didn’t know what was in it or who put it there. Just trying to be careful.” Molly’s shoulders were drawing inward. “This is still Paris, right? Max and Ian haven’t brought me home? No offense, but why are you both here?”

“Max called us.” John ripped a strip of tape from the roll, taping the needle in place and trying to send Sherlock a look over her head. Traumatized. Not the time to tell her about a plane full of people dying. “Thought maybe I could help.”

“Yeah.” Molly nodded. “Leave the fibbing to Sherlock, John. He’s better at it.” She stuffed both the bed pillows behind her back. “Will you at least tell me what I had? Last thing I can remember clearly, I was trying to get a cab Sunday night.”

“Listeriosis, leading to septicemia.” John checked her pulse quickly. “You also had a near-fatal reaction to some antibiotics. You probably should wear one of those medical bracelets.”

“I had a card in my wallet.” She made a face as the temperature probe was put in her ear.

“You dropped it outside of Le Baron Rouge.” Sherlock saw the look of displeasure cross John’s face. Molly’s temperature must have either plateaued or risen. “A busboy picked it up and Max has it now.”

“Okay.” She slowly exhaled through pursed lips. “If I still need intravenous meds, why am I not in the hospital?” Molly watched the looks pass between the two men, growing more uneasy the longer the silence went on. 

John stood, gathering the contents of the messenger bag. “I’ll go get some water, Molly. You’re still dehydrated.” He exited quietly.

She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Sherlock, did Max try to hire you? If it has anything to do with me…”

“Do you trust me, Molly?” Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed.

She swallowed hard, head dropping forward and eyes closing. “You know I do.” 

“Then I need you to tell me about David.” He watched her closely, expecting the fear that flickered across her features, her knees drawing up, and her arms curling around her. What he had never suspected was to see shame settle across her like a layer of ice. 

Her breath was shaky. “It isn’t important. Just let it go, okay?”

“I can’t.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away. “Molly, Lawrence Majors tried to take you from hospital.” Her eyes opened, panicked. “He had forged documents that would have allowed him to walk off with you. I can’t stop him if I don’t know what happened.”

She shook for several minutes, eyes again downcast, tears flowing, but none of the sobbing or other sounds of weeping Sherlock had come to expect from crying people. He handed her a tissue box, thinking any further action on his part would be too much like intruding. She seemed to be trying to come to terms with something within. Finally she dried her face, blew her nose quietly a couple of times. “Okay. What do you need to know?”

John returned with a pitcher of water and a glass. He took up station on the other side of the bed, pressing a full glass into Molly’s hand. “Just try to take it easy, okay? You’re still very ill.”

“When did you meet David? Was it at a reenactment?” Sherlock showed her the photograph Max had given him.

“Tewksbury. He’d never participated before. Max only accepted him because he came with all his own armor and equipment. I’d missed his arrival because I was helping get the tents set up.” Molly rubbed her forehead. “The first time I saw him, he was on a riverbank. He must have seen me first, because he started imitating the Tin Man, singing and dancing. You know, ‘if I only had a heart’?”

“Sounds like a flirt.” John smiled.

“It was sort of sweet until he slid down and fell in the river, fully armored. His legs stayed on land, but his head went in the water and he couldn’t lift himself out. I had to save him from drowning. I was so angry with him; I didn’t talk to him for three weeks.”

“But you ended up in a relationship with him anyway?” Sherlock had already begun processing the details Max hadn’t been able to provide.

“He wore me down.” Molly shrugged. “Every time I turned around, he was there, saying how beautiful he thought I was and how happy we’d be. What was the Mae West line? “A man you’d need to marry to get rid of”? He proposed on our first date, insisted we’d be together forever. He showed up every time I had a lunch break, every time I’d leave university or work. He wanted us to move in together, but he was pushing too hard, too fast. It was…flattering, I guess.”

“When did the gifts begin?” Sherlock noted that everything in her body language was saying she should never have dated David at all.

She shivered. “Before our first date. A dozen roses a week, take aways almost every night. I couldn’t pay for a pint anywhere. Clothes, jewelry, trips I kept trying to refuse. About the only thing he didn’t pay outright for was my flat.”

“You thought he was trying to buy you?” John remembered a similar mistake he had made when he was still a teenager.

“I thought so at first, but there was a bigger problem.” Molly paused. “David spent money like it was burning him, like he’d been poor all his life, only to have his gold plated ship come in. His London flat must have been four, maybe five times bigger than yours at Baker Street. He bought two Porsches; one red and one black for weekends. He bought me a green one, but I wouldn’t accept it.”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s when you decided to break it off.”

Molly sighed. “I know Max thought that, but no. I decided a few days before that.” She stared off over his shoulder. “I caught him swapping around my birth control, making a set of nothing but sugar pills.”

“David got sick before you could leave him, right?” John was aghast. A stunt like that would have to rank high as a betrayal of someone you claimed to love. Almost enslavement.

“Something was so wrong. He kept raving about mirrors speaking to him and how they needed to be fed. He told me he had seen his family’s physician, but he wanted me to do an MRI to confirm the diagnosis. The university had a machine, so we used it after hours. The glioblastoma was already larger than a golf ball, perched right on his frontal lobe. The pressure on his brain must have been phenomenal.”

“Do you still have the results?” Sherlock knew they could prove quite a lot if she had kept them.

“They must be in one of the boxes I put in storage after graduation. Two weeks later, we ran a second set. The tumor had grown almost twelve millimeters.” Molly wrapped herself into a tighter ball. “I kept trying to get him some help, get anyone to realize how sick he was, but no one would listen. I even talked to his father Lawrence a couple of times, but he thought the doctors were wrong.”

“If David was so ill, why did you take him to Annecy? Surely his parents could have come to London?” Sherlock watched the twitch race through her as if she’d been struck. 

“I was trying to get him to commit himself before someone got hurt.” Molly’s voice was a whisper. “He said if I’d take him home, take him to his parents, he’d do whatever they advised. I thought if they could see how badly off he was…”

“What happened after you arrived there?” Sherlock moved closer to not miss anything her whispy voice said.

Molly was blinking rapidly, shaking. “I remember we fought. I thought no one else was there. Dust everywhere.” Her fingers were rubbing her temple. “He hit me with a brandy decanter. He wasn’t angry, just wanted me to obey and I wasn’t cooperating. Sherlock, I’m sorry, but it’s all jumbled after that.”

“You said you didn’t think anyone else was there. Was that true?”

“We were…no.” she shuddered. “There was a woman there. Older.” Her eyes darted around the room, sightless.

“David’s mother?” He knew she was trying so hard to answer as best she could.

“Yes. No. He said she was but she denied it. She called him a bastard, flew into a fury. She…” Molly’s face fell, her eyes widening in panic. “My god, Sherlock! She killed him! She broke his skull with the fireplace poker! That’s why he didn’t struggle in the water! He was already dead!”

“All right, Sherlock, that’s enough. Molly, you’ve got to get calmed down.” John was trying to get her to ease back onto the pillows.

“John, I need to know…”

“Feel her pulse!” he hissed. “You’ll push her right over the edge!”

He checked, startled by how hard and fast it was hammering. Molly trusted him, all right. Trusted him enough to sicken herself to get him what he wanted. He only needed one more bit of information and wasn’t sure she had the answer. He watched her for a moment as she tried to push John away, insisting she was all right and could continue. “Molly, listen to me.” Sherlock grasped her shoulders, made her meet his eyes. “I think I know what really happened. I can end this and when I do, Lawrence Majors will never touch your life again. I need you to sleep now. Can you do that for me?”

Her eyes were still cloudy but her cheeks were dry. She reached out, nearly touching his cheek before her hand fell. “All right. Be careful.” She slid deeper in the bed, pulling the duvet over her shoulder.

 

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Ian met them right outside the bedroom door, ushering them into the living room. “Max called about ten minutes ago. Mr. Majors has found a magistrate to try and force us to turn Molly over to him. They meet in half an hour.”

“What do we need to do to stop him?” John left the messenger bag in an overstuffed chair.

“Sherlock, you still have her passport, no? Max thought you and I should also meet with the magistrate to prove his documents are forgeries.” Ian was already pulling on his coat.

This was the last thing they needed right now. “Call Mycroft, John.” Sherlock made sure her passport was in his inner pocket. “I need to know when and where Lawrence Campbell’s wife was last seen. She’s the key to it all.”

“Shouldn’t I come along?” John had his own coat half on.

“No.” Sherlock leaned close, speaking under his breath. “You’re the only one I trust to keep her safe John.” He leaned away again, resuming his normal voice. “I’m sure Ian can vouch for her professional credentials. Besides, I haven’t got the Parisian maps memorized.”

Both men swept out in a flurry of fabric and leather.

Michelle shuffled a deck of cards. “Do you play gin rummy, Doctor Watson?”

 

FD FD FD

 

“I believe that evens the score again, John. Your deal.” Michelle smiled, swirling brandy in her glass.

“You still haven’t told me how you met Max.” He squared the cards, dividing two stacks and fanning them together.

“I did a feature on some of his subordinates.” She sighed. “Not my usual type of assignment, but it went well.”

“Feature?” John paused. “You’re a reporter?”

“”I prefer correspondent. You don’t approve of my profession?”

“A few unpleasant run-ins.” He began to deal.

“Hmm. Because of your blog.” It wasn’t a question. “I don’t do much human interest work. Usually I’m in war zones.” Michelle indicated a photo album on the coffee table. “If your friend had gotten ill two weeks ago, I would have still been in the Sudan.”

“You go wandering in…” John stopped as she held her hand up, palm out to him, pursing her lips. Headlights swept over the front windows.

Michelle stood quickly, opening a trunk that had been used as a side table, pulling out a video camera the size of a tool box. She removed the lens cap, pushing a button on the side. “Claude, are we on stand by?”

A voice from a tinny speaker. “Oui, Michelle. Four cars and the helicopter are ready when you give the signal.”

She pointed the camera at the front door. “Doctor Watson, you are going to be followed and I promise it will not be subtle.”

A sharp hard rapping at the door. “You set this up?”

“Max always demands secondary and tertiary backups. We need to get them to take you as well to keep her safe. Are you ready?”

He shook his head. “Yeah, all right. Michelle?” he waited until she faced him. “Tell Sherlock she was at Annecy, okay?”

“Understood.” Michelle opened the front door. “I hope you gentlemen have the proper paperwork to disturb innocent people in the dead of night!”

“We have reason to believe there is a kidnapping in progress. You have a Molly Hunter on the premises?” The lead officer stopped as the rest of the police poured into the flat.

John kept ahead of them in the hall. “I’ve got a critically ill patient trying to rest here!” He was unceremoniously shoved aside as they raided the bedroom. He finally pushed his way in by following the gurney.

Molly had obviously not taken the intrusion well, judging by the blood John saw on several faces. She seemed to have calculated her odds and settled down a bit, still refusing to climb on the gurney.

“It’s all right, Molly.” The officers let John through as she began to move. “I told them I’m your doctor and I’m not going to leave you.”

“Are you sure about this?” she whispered as he helped her onto the rolling bed.

“Ask me when it’s over.” John pulled the blanket over her.


	9. Chapter 9

Michelle pressed a sage green satin robe and slippers into John’s hands as the medics and police rolled Molly’s gurney out of the flat and toward the waiting ambulance. “Keep her in her own clothing as long as you can, mon lapin. It will help her spirits, I promise.”

“Your friends are ready?” John blinked against the flashing police lights, trying to see beyond Michelle’s flat being systematically searched, her neighbors questioned.

“Oui. There is a camera van waiting at the end of the street. You and your friend will not be let out of their sight. It’s the only safety I can offer now. When it’s over, Doctor Watson, come see me. I want to hear the story from you.” She kissed his cheek. “No reporting allowed, from either of us.”

He watched her return to her door, Janine waiting, stomping her feet and seeming to swear loudly in French. Well, readers didn’t have to know everything. He climbed into the back of the ambulance, the door closing quickly behind him.

 

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Max met Ian and Sherlock outside the courtroom door. “Mr. Majors is trying to have formal kidnapping charges filed against us! My superior is refusing so far, but this is getting uglier as it goes! Any word from Michelle yet?”

Ian brought Max up to date as Sherlock wandered a few yards away. A new text had come from Lestrade. Opening it, he skimmed the report. Mrs. Andrea Campbell had been home in Kent when her son David had died of a gunshot wound. The traumatized woman spent the next four years in and out of hospitals, treated for various stomach issues. The euphemism curled Sherlock’s lip. Mycroft would have found a better cover than that. The report was more telling in what it didn’t say; no paraffin test given to either mother or son, respect for their position allowed them to request a private autopsy instead of the far more invasive, far more legal public one. Enough irregularities were appearing that a new investigation into the death was going to begin. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to make a difference today.

Max’s mobile had rung and he was gesturing madly, but Sherlock was more interested in the older man approaching with a phalanx of lawyers. He pulled out his notebook, made a few pen strokes, and then folded the top page in quarters.

“Max O’Barr!” the older man was shouting in a heavy American accent. “If you think I’m going to stand by and let you hurt the poor dear that was almost my daughter, then you’ve got a harsh lesson ahead!”

Sherlock held the paper aloft. “Mr. Campbell? An urgent message for a Mr. Campbell?”

“Yeah, who the hell are you?” The older man snatched the paper away, unfolding it to reveal the hastily sketched smiley face.

“Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Majors.” He extended his hand with an icy smile. “I’m a friend of the lady in question.”

“Holmes?” the man’s eyes narrowed, then widened with recognition. With a gesture, he and the phalanx retreated down the corridor.

“Sherlock, we have to go.” Ian was staring at his mobile, appalled. “The gendarmes have seized Molly! She and Doctor Watson are on the move!”

 

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“Any idea where we’re going?” Molly was trying to sit up as the ambulance bounced along unseen streets.

John tried to steady her. “Something was said about a private hospital, but that’s all I know. The two medics claim they don’t speak English.” He almost fell off the jump seat as a pothole jarred them. “Maybe you ought to stay lying down?”

She shook her head. “I get car sick. John, I need to tell you some things.”

He checked her pulse via her throat, feeling clearly how her temperature was rising again. “Sherlock will find us soon, Molly. You can tell him all of this then.”

“No! Damn it, John! I can’t be the only one who knows this going forward! You have to listen!” Her eyes had gotten glassy and wild.

“All right, all right.” He leaned across the gurney. “Just try to keep calm, okay? You’re worrying your doctor!”

Molly kept briefly looking him in the eye, and then she’d veer away, like a film was playing too fast in her mind. “David had already hit me with the decanter when that crazy woman showed up. I could hear them fighting, but I was so far out of it that I just stayed on the floor. I think I blacked out a few times, but they just kept shrieking at each other.”

“Do you remember what about?” John carefully checked in her hairline where she had rubbed before. Sure enough, there was a fine network of white scars forming a mad star shape hidden by her hair.

She shook her head. “I just remember a lot of old fashioned swearing; terms I’ve only read in books. It got quiet, and that’s when I remember her swinging the fireplace poker. I used it myself earlier, trying to stop David. She was insane, swinging so fast and hard and the next thing I remember, David was lying on the carpet next to me. His eyes were open but he wasn’t seeing anything. He was dead, John, I’m sure of it.”

“Okay, Molly, you have to calm down.” John checked her pulse and it was racing again. She’d spiral downward and was in no condition for sedation.

“David had brought our hand fasting cord and she must have found it.” She pushed his hands away. “She carried us out to a speedboat, tied us together and dropped us in the lake, John! She tried to kill us both! She got the knot wrong and I got loose, swam back to the dock.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? Made someone listen?” John was astounded. “Hell, why didn’t you tell Sherlock after you met?”

“Because it was my fault!” Molly hissed, biting back a scream. “I can’t lie about my heart, John. David had only had a couple of weeks, maybe at the outside a month to live, but I couldn’t make myself lie to him to make him feel better. I tried to take him back to the people who were supposed to care because I couldn’t lie and tell him that I loved him. I put David in her hands.”

The thought sprung unbidden to John’s mind, and she could see it register in his eyes.

“I can’t lie to him either.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “All I can do is misdirect, not ever let him ask the right questions. I never wanted him in the middle of this, but now you both are, and it’s my fault all over again.”

As he tried desperately to find something to say, the color drained from her face as she looked through the windscreen of the ambulance. They weren’t pulling up to a hospital. They had been brought to a private residence. 

 

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Max had put the police light on the roof of his car, but it still felt like they were crawling along. “I am sorry, Sherlock.” Max took a moment to lay on the horn at a cab that wouldn’t get out of the way. “I didn’t think he could get any of the gendarmes to move without me hearing about it first.”

Sherlock stared out the window. “I think this was all beyond your pay grade from the beginning. Mr. Campbell / Majors has gotten so used to running everything his way because he’s good at throwing his money and reputation around. We just need to be sure we reach Molly and John before he does anything rash.” He glanced at Ian in the backseat. “If Michelle’s network is following them, shouldn’t we be watching the broadcast?”

“No.” Max swerved around a stranded lorry. “They’re following, taping, but not broadcasting. They do the same for hostage situations. If something happens to us, or they get too many laws broken on camera, they’ll show the tapes, but not before. Michelle might even ask your permission first!”

Ian leaned up between the seats. “They must have given up on the hospitals. Michelle says they should arrive at the estate at Annecy within a few minutes.” 

“I don’t like the sound of that.” Max growled.

Ian seemed to read and reread the incoming text. “The network’s helicopter has been warned away due to an incoming government flight due to land on the front lawn in twenty minutes!”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. “Now I know why he’s not answering his mobile.”

 

FD FD FD

 

They were shown quietly to a bedroom on the top floor. Molly had almost folded in on herself and he guessed this was the room she had thought she was escaping at Michelle’s. The room was very plain, very white, with only a small window showing the driveway and a bit of the yard.

John took a moment to help her into the robe and slippers Michelle had sent along. A long nightdress had been waiting on the bed, but she took one look and flung it into a far corner. Fear and anger seemed to be warring within her, but he thought it could be so much worse. “You really should get into bed, rest even if you can’t sleep.”

“Okay.” She eased slowly under the duvet. “How bad has my temperature gotten?”

“I wish you were back in the hospital.” John pulled the lone chair to the side of the bed. “We’ll get you back as soon as we can.”

Three knocks sounded before the door opened, admitting a solidly built older man. His hair had once been golden but was now shot through with enough silver to appear yellowed grey. Many lines scored his face but they seemed to be either from comedy or tragedy. “Are you settled in yet, Ms. Hunter?” his American accented baritone caressed but still held the hint of malice. “Anything you need?”

“A proper hospital would be a good start!” John sprung up from the chair, moving to the side of the bed. “Dr. Hooper shouldn’t have been moved at least until her temperature stabilized! Her fever is coming back and she’s going to need higher doses of antibiotics, a better antipyretic…”

“Dr. Watson, am I correct?” He smiled, extending his hand. “I’m Lawrence Majors. I can assure you, sir, anything you or your patient may need; it will be delivered to you in minutes.” The ignored hand was brushed against his trouser leg. “Bichat Hospital was not a safe location for this dear child. Those people who convinced you to help them get her out of there don’t have her best interests at heart. I’ve already started filing charges and my own security will assure her safety. Fate may have robbed me of having Ms. Hunter as my daughter-in-law, but in my son’s memory, no harm will come to her.”

The only thing keeping John silent was Molly’s hand wrapped tight around his wrist, her nails digging in enough to make her wishes known. He cleared his throat. “I’ll make a list. There’s a chemists nearby?” She gradually released him.

“Not two minutes from the front gate. I know the owner, so it’s open anytime you need. In the meantime, I would like a small conversation with the lady.” He sat casually on the edge of the bed, taking possession of her hand, pressing dry lips to her palm.

Molly reclaimed the hand as if it had blistered. “Something I can help you with, Mr. Majors?” Unconsciously she pulled the duvet higher on her chest, drew her knees upward.

“Well, honey, things were so painful and chaotic right after David died, that I never felt we really had a chance to talk. Just those couple of phone calls and not much else. You know my son was absolutely crazy for you.” Light seemed to dance in the old man’s eyes.

The first bubble of hysterical laughter escaped, but she stopped the rest. “I’m sure you’re correct, sir. You really didn’t need to go to all this trouble. I was safe with my friends at the hospital and would really like to…”

“They aren’t your ‘friends’, child.” His voice got venomous. “That one bastard has given me nothing but grief since my poor son died. Using any excuse he can find to try to malign David’s memory. Asking questions no decent person would ask! No, Ms. Hunter. You’re far safer here.”

John stole a glance at her. She was a little paler, a subtle shaking in her shoulders, but her eyes were steady and her lip was firm. “Mr. Majors, I really must insist you let Molly rest now. I’m sure you can pick the conversation up later.”

The older man laughed. “I don’t think you give our little Molly enough credit, doctor. Just another couple of minutes, that all right, dear?” He squeezed her arm affectionately.

“What is it you want, Mr. Majors?” She put the mouse on display, curling into herself, averting her eyes and softening her voice. She wanted to lure the answer from him so he’d get out and give her and John a chance to talk.

“Molly, honey,” he had taken her hand again, lightly rubbing and patting it paternally. “I know how awful David’s loss was to us all, but there may be one bit of joy we can rescue from the grief. A birth.”

Her blood had frozen solid in her veins. “Sorry?”

“David knew how important family was to me, how desperately I wanted enough grandchildren that one could wave at me from each window as I got home each night. He took certain steps…oh, hell, you’re a doctor; I shouldn’t need to be delicate. David had sperm samples frozen not long before his passing. Ms. Hunter, I want you to do me the honor of making me a grandfather.”

She was suddenly very glad her eyes were averted so she didn’t need to hide her horror. Time enough for that later. “Mr. Majors, I…”

“You won’t be alone. I’ll want to be a part of things, so we’ll move you and get you set up in my house in America. I’ll cover all expenses from the insemination all the way through college and beyond. Who knows? Maybe if the first goes well enough, I could still get my wish!” His eyes were misting. “Please, Molly? Will you give this old man a reason to go on?”

John fought very hard to breathe without screaming. Being ill was a very real possibility. This was beyond doubt one of the sickest, most twisted, most despicable things he had ever heard. He had to let her take the lead, but it was taking all his energy not to step forward and snap the old man in half.

Molly bit her now quivering lip. “I’m sorry, Mr. Majors, but I’m going to have to think about this. I’m just…” she shook her head a bit. “I’ve been so sick. I need a little time. Can you do that for me? Please?” The tears started to flow. “I don’t know if I want to give up London, my job, my flat…”

“It’s all right, dear.” The old man gave her a brief fierce embrace. “I’ll get all that taken care of. You just rest and we’ll talk more in the morning.” He swiped at his damp face. “You have a list for me, doctor?”

John handed him the paper wordlessly, placing his hand on Molly’s shoulder. He was relieved when she wrapped his hand in her own.

Mr. Majors smiled on his way out the door. “Someone will bring you all you’ve asked for within the hour, doctor. I’ll also have a cot made up for you so you can keep an eye on our little mother tonight.”

As soon as the door clicked shut, Molly buried her face in her hands.

“Please tell me you aren’t even considering…” John began.

“Not for one single minute.” Her voice was clear, her face now dry. “We’re under his guard. I’ll say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no sir’ and ‘please sir’ and ‘thank you, sir’ as long as he’s got a hold of us.”

“And after?” he whispered back, distracted by lights just visible from their window.

“I make sure he never has a chance again.” Molly was already thinking fondly of a few possibilities.

“Think fast!” John couldn’t hide the smile in his voice as he looked at the flashing lights growing stronger. “I think the cavalry is arriving!”


	10. Chapter 10

It took Mycroft Holmes several moments of smoothing, tucking and straightening before he felt proper enough as he walked from the helicopter. His brother’s smirking didn’t help. He held the manila envelope out. “Detective Inspector Lestrade thought you should see these.”

“Delivery boy? New entry on your CV?” Sherlock ripped an end open, pulling out the police photos of David Campbell’s death scene. A short review and he handed them off to Ian. “If you wore that bowler I got for you for Christmas, you wouldn’t have to worry about your hair.”

“That was four Christmases ago, Sherlock, and Anthea failed to appreciate the humor of it.” Wordlessly, he looked over Max and Ian. “Interesting company you’ve gone to keeping, but I think I prefer Dr. Watson. Can I assume he’s guarding Dr. Hooper?”

Ian handed the photos back to Sherlock. “That was no suicide.”

“Murder, then?” He was looking for confirmation.

“Awfully sloppy one. I’d say accidental death, but the victim did not pull the trigger.” 

Sherlock nodded. “The local constabulary flubs it again. What did he buy, Mycroft? A gold watch? Fine cigars? What was the going price on a dead son and murderous wife at that point in time?”

Mycroft brushed away a bit of non existent lint. “I believe a large donation was made to the widows and orphans fund.”

“Poetic. Are you joining us or did you just want a ride at taxpayer’s expense?” He could see John’s shadow in the window of the top floor room and assumed all was quiet within. 

“I have some…unfinished business with Mr. Campbell. He is planning to retire soon and plans need to be reviewed.” Mycroft gestured toward the gate. “Gentlemen, shall we?”

 

FD FD FD

 

A pounding on the door. “John?” Sherlock shouted from the other side. “There’s a padlock out here. Are you away from the door?”

Good thing there hadn’t been an emergency. He looked around; made sure he and Molly were both clear. “Ready when you are.”

It was an old door, taking three blows, but most of the splinters stayed hanging by layers of paint while the rest of it gave way. Sherlock came through the gap first, but Max ran straight to Molly.

He wrapped the small figure in his arms. “Damn it, woman, you’ve got to stop scaring the hell out of me! Ian will think I’m messing around!” Max kissed her damp forehead.

“No more scares, promise.” Molly giggled. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this, my friend. Didn’t I tell you that you that I shouldn’t cross the Channel? Going to listen next time?”

“Yes, Max. You and Ian come to London next time. I’ll even cover the hotel costs. It will be easier all around than this mess has been.” As Sherlock checked her pulse and her temperature, he couldn’t miss the flash of pain in her eyes. A brief glance at John confirmed; not good. He was profoundly out of his depth in this scenario. “Of course, I haven’t been bored and we’ve inconvenienced my brother, so everything has its benefits.”

“He really is a git.” Max laughed. “You did warn me about that!”

“Play nice!” Molly pouted. “You aren’t exactly a prize yourself!”

As the banter continued, John pulled Sherlock aside. “Her fever has been climbing for hours now. How soon can we get her back into the hospital?”

“As soon as we’re through downstairs.” Sherlock checked his mobile. Arrangements were being made for Lawrence Major’s arrest the moment his feet touched British soil.

John was obviously not pleased. “Sherlock, you wanted me to be her physician, and as her physician, I’m telling you putting her through this right now isn’t the best thing for her health. She needs time to heal and adding more shocks to the stresses she’s already managing won’t do her any favors.”

“John,” he was getting annoyed. “Molly was sold an illusion. An illusion she’s wasted years of her life being afraid of. There have been at least three deaths, perhaps more. You said yourself she’s been traumatized by it all. I’m about to shatter that illusion. Don’t you think it would be better for her to see it break, see what really happened to them all?”

“You figured it out?” her voice sounded very small. “You know what happened?”

“You were only a bystander.” Sherlock walked to the bedside. “I can prove it, Molly. Do you want to see?” He offered his hand.

She seemed to study his eyes for a moment. “Okay, but I can get downstairs by myself. I…”

“Hate being carried. Duly noted.” 

 

FD FD FD

 

“Ah, Dr. Hooper, Lawrence and I were just discussing your unfortunate illness.” Mycroft had stood as the group entered the lounge. He shot a stern look at the other man until he stood as well. “I do hope the fever has been easing and you’ll soon be on the mend.”

“Molly will be just fine.” Lawrence skirted the coffee table, reaching for her hand. “In fact…”

Sherlock stepped between the man and his target. “Don’t.” He smirked. “Just don’t. Not now. Not ever.” He practically purred.

His face was reddening. “Just exactly where the hell do you get off…”

“Where’s your wife, Mr. Campbell?” Sherlock’s voice sharpened. “How you must have hated her in the end. Her illness cost you everything, didn’t it? Everything twice.”

The older man was practically apoplectic. “I don’t have to stand here and listen to this slander!”

“Actually, Lawrence, I’m afraid you do.” Mycroft smiled in steel, resuming his seat in the Queen Anne chair. “You can answer my brother’s questions or you can answer to Scotland Yard. I’m afraid your government has revoked your immunity.” He sipped his brandy as he handed over the completed set of papers. “I would recommend you answer to Sherlock right now. It wouldn’t be admissible in a court of law and the witnesses would be considered hearsay.”

Reviewing the papers took a few minutes, allowing John and Max to get Molly settled in an overstuffed chair of her own. Ian brought her a glass of water. 

Eventually the papers were cast aside. Mr. Lawrence Campbell sat quietly awaiting what questions would come.

Sherlock paced the room. “Did Andrea Campbell have a history of mental illness before her son was born?”

“Of course not!” Lawrence scoffed. “If she had, I never would have married her. Our marriage had been for the diplomatic service. At some point all diplomats are expected to have a spouse. It isn’t in the rule book, but it is assumed if promotion is desired. Andrea and I had gotten along well. We both wanted the same things, including children. Marrying her was the best decision.”

“So it’s safe to assume the affairs started immediately?” Sherlock smirked.

“That was also expected.” Lawrence nodded. “Andrea became pregnant within the first year of our marriage. We had been posted in Honduras at the time, so I sent her back to the states for the duration of her pregnancy. I came home for the birth itself, but then had to leave again. My understanding later was that Andrea suffered quite badly from post partum depression. It seemed to start a vicious cycle in her. The depressions seemed to swirl longer and darker.” He rose, pouring himself another brandy.

“When was her first suicide attempt?” Sherlock knew it would have been buried in her medical records, distorted to hide the ugly truth from any prying eyes.

Lawrence took several deep swallows. “Her doctors believe she tried before I left Honduras permanently. She had driven off a causeway with David strapped in the car behind her. It was a miracle anyone saw her car leave the road. I came home soon after.”

“You didn’t try to get her any help?” John was astounded. “Not even after she tried to kill your child?”

“Dr. Watson, even now mental illness is seen as a weakness.” Lawrence swirled the dregs in the snifter. “Her weakness could have cost me my career! The doctors were willing to see her actions in a more favorable light and I made sure she and David followed me to every posting after that.”

“While you waited in America for your next posting, that was when you started your second family, correct?” Sherlock was mapping out the time lines.

Lawrence spared Molly a sideways glance. “Yes. Pamela and I met when she was working as a nanny for a family friend.”

“And did she deliberately name your illegitimate son after your legitimate one?” 

“My god.” Max gasped. “There really were two Davids! One father but two different mothers!”

“I think she wanted to punish me.” Lawrence began to pace. “She disappeared with our child not long after birth. It was almost a decade before I saw our son again. The resemblance to his older brother was astounding.”

“So what happened in Kent?” Sherlock asked. “How did the first David end up dead?”

Lawrence took up a spot near the fireplace. “We had been posted to England for a year as part of preparations for here. David was doing very well in school. Had even begun preparing for higher education that would have taken him back to America without his mother. He was hoping for Harvard, one of the Ivy League colleges. Andrea pulled farther and farther away. She felt like he was leaving her behind.”

“How did she get the firearm?” Mycroft asked quietly.

“I never knew.” Lawrence poured three more brandies, taking one, passing one to Mycroft and setting one in front of Molly who ignored it completely. “Only the two of them were home that day. She called me when it was over and our son was bleeding out in our bedroom. She claimed that she was trying to shoot herself when David came in and tried to stop her. They struggled and the gun went off, killing him.”

Sherlock moved the snifter as if it were poisoned. “You lied to the police?”

“Hiding weakness was second nature by then.” Lawrence was obviously not proud of it. “Turning her over to them was not an option, especially over a stupid accident. David couldn’t be shamed; he was already dead. The blame couldn’t possibly hurt him then.”

“Besides, you had a replacement on stand-by.” Molly seemed to be getting paler by the moment. “The David I knew was the younger one?”

“Molly, you have to understand, he was like a gift from god to me!” Lawrence tried to take her hands in his but she cringed away. “I had failed so badly, but I had a second chance to get it right! Pamela had been in touch on and off over the years, usually when she needed money. Her son could never have afforded a college education. Everything fate had denied him, I could suddenly give!”

“What about your wife? I can’t imagine Andrea agreed to this.” John was ice cold.

“I didn’t need her permission.” Lawrence was colder. “I set her up here. The servants made sure she stayed in the house. I couldn’t stand the sight of her any more. She was no longer my problem.”

“You assumed she’d finish the job. Kill herself so your hands would stay clean.” Ian had moved behind Molly.

“It was what she wanted, wasn’t it?” he hissed. “I just got rid of the bystanders who might get hurt in the process.”

“You brought him to London, set him up in his own flat, gave him an expense account, anything he may have desired.” Sherlock was watching her closely. She was beginning to understand. “But then your second chance got ill.”

“Molly tried to tell me how bad off he was, but I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t think fate could be that cruel.” Lawrence seemed to be staring at a point beyond the horizon. “I told David I had to come here for a few days but that I’d come to him in London afterwards. See what medical arrangements could be made for him.”

“He knew he didn’t have time. David wanted to meet you here instead.” Molly sounded so tired. “You never told Andrea about him. She must have thought he was an impostor. You let him walk through that door and right into her.”

“Jean, one of the servants found you, but he thought both you and David were dead. He knew I would want all evidence disposed of, so he did his best, trying to hide you entirely or at least make it look like a murder-suicide.”

“By tying me to a dead man and dropping me in a lake.” Molly’s eyes were frighteningly dry.

“Molly, I told you before, I am so sorry for that! I would have stopped him, but he was already rowing back in when I arrived! I thought you were already dead!” Lawrence tried to move closer but Max interfered this time.

“And Andrea? Where was she?” Mycroft asked.

Lawrence had to try speaking several times before he found his voice. “Jean found her hanging by the chandelier. He wasn’t sure what I wanted done with her body.”

Molly stood on uncertain legs. “You had him drop her in the lake as well. That’s why that ogre found me at the dock. He was getting ready to get rid of her, too.” She slowly walked to the glass doors that overlooked the water.

“But why did you keep Molly here for a month? She said you kept her locked in that room upstairs.” John knew the answer as soon as he’d asked the question. “You…you were making sure David hadn’t gotten her pregnant. A third chance.”

Lawrence bolted, faster than any of them had expected he could move. He had Molly’s arm, turning her to him. Sherlock had a split second to see the fear register in her eyes; Lawrence had a weapon at waist height. A gun was a safe assumption.

They were all moving, but he’d already gotten to her. Her eyes were rolling back, her chin falling forward as her knees began to give way. Lawrence tried to hold on as she sagged, but her weight pulled him forward slightly. Molly suddenly straightened, her knees locking as the crown of her lowered head hit Lawrence with a sickening crack. He folded, nearly pulling her over with him.

She had started to slide down the glass doors when Sherlock caught her. “Did I break his nose?” She was shaking hard enough to alarm him.

Max checked the unconscious Lawrence, rolling him on his side so the blood wouldn’t drown him. “Oh, yeah, maybe his jaw as well.” He snorted. “You still got it, girl!”

Why was the room spinning to the left? She smiled crookedly at blue green eyes. “Can you carry me just this once, please?”


End file.
